nia 


NINA 
WILCOX 
PUTNAM 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


WEST  BROADWAY 


NINA  WILCOX  PUTNAM 


WEST    BROADWAY 


BY 

NINA  WILCOX  PUTNAM 

AUTHOR  OF   "IT  PAYS   TO   SMILE,"   "ADAM'S   GARDEN," 

"THE  IMPOSSIBLE  BOY,"  ETC. 


NEW  XBJT  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1921, 
B*  GEORGE  H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1921,   BY  THE   CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


WEST  BROADWAY 


2037594 


TO  MY  PUBLIC,  WHICH  ON   SCREEN  OR  STAGE,  IN" 
CABARET  OR  PARLOR  ACT  HAS  BEEN  SO  KIND  TO  ME 

DEAR  PUBLIC:  Deep  in  every  persons 
mind  is  the  idea  that  they  could  write  a  book 
if  only  they  was  to  take  the  trouble  and  the 
time  off,  and  motion-picture  actresses  are  no 
exception  to  this  great  general  human  weak- 
ness. 

So  I  have  written  this  book.  Not  alone  for 
the  publicity,  but  to  express  something  that 
was  in  my  heart,  and  because  my  manager 
asked  me  to  write  it.  It  is  the  story  of  how 
I  bought  a  dictionary  and  discovered  Amer- 
ica; of  how  I  went  out  to  teach  and  of  what  I 
learned  instead.  Please  excuse  mistakes  in 
spelling,  grammar,  and  ectera.  There  are  no 
mistakes  in  what  I  have  to  tell  you  about  your 
country.  It  has  been  like  trying  to  write  the 
Bible,  and  having  to  do  it  in  slang. 

Yours  resp' fully 

MARIE  LA  TOUR. 
December  28,  1920. 


WEST    BROADWAY 


AFTER  a  severe  attack  of  thinking  I  have  come  to 
realize  how  true  is  the  poet's  word,  A  Little  Educa- 
tion Can  Start  a  Hell  of  a  Lot  of  Trouble.  Do  you  get  me  ? 
Like  a  dose  of  medicine  it  has  got  to  be  measured  right  to 
have  a  real  desirable  effect.  Take  too  little  and  it  only  sort 
of  makes  you  sick ;  take  too  much  and  you  will  be  worse  off 
than  before.  And  I  have  come  also  to  realize  that  what  ails 
a  good  part  of  this  country  to-day  is  a  little  education.  We 
got  a  small  dose  and  it  ain't  working  either  one  way  or 
another,  which  is  maybe  rather  a  rough  thing  for  one  which 
is  at  once  a  lady,  a  mother  and  a  admittedly  great  actress 
like  myself  to  say,  but  then  all  great  truths  are  more  or 
less  rough. 

Anyways,  it  is  a  clear,  general  statement,  which  is  a 
dangerous  thing  to  make,  and  I  wouldn't  make  one  that 
was  not  based  on  personal  observation,  and  this  one  is  based 
on  several  weeks  of  it. 

Yet  believe  me  I  don't  intend  to  knock  education  too 
severe;  not  by  a  long  shot,  I  don't;  and  it  was  feeling  my 
own  lack  of  it  that  sent  me  out  on  the  trip  which  furnished 
what  the  scenario  department  calls  the  meat  for  this  script. 
I  am  perfectly  willing  to  admit  that  some  brands  of  educa- 
tion are  all  right  in  their  way  and  are  undoubtedly  respon- 
sible for  the  invention  of  the  telephone,  massage  creams, 
motion-picture  cameras  and  important  things  which  I  per- 
7 


8  West  Broadway 

sonally  myself  would  find  it  hard  to  get  along  without.  The 
kind  of  education  which  has  got  me  worried  is  that  old 
soldier  General  Education  who  has  gone  and  pinned  an 
alias  on  himself  of  Culture.  Culture  is  right — that's  what 
they  call  one  of  those  high-priced  operations  where  they 
graft  on  a  piece  of  somebody  else's  skin — do  you  get  the 
idea?  Well,  keep  hold  of  it  then  while  I  tell  you  what 
started  me  on  the  road  to  this  profound  conclusion,  and 
like  most  troubles  it  centered  about  the  home — my  home 
in  this  particular  case,  and  Al  Goldringer  trying  to  pry 
me  out  of  it;  and,  of  course,  I  being  a  perfectly  normal 
woman  was  delighted  to  be  pried,  only  not  quite  in  the  way 
he  wanted. 

You  see,  considering  the  amount  of  money  which  has 
passed  between  Al  and  I  since  first  he  begun  making  pic- 
tures with  me,  we  are  really  remarkably  friendly,  and  no 
other  producer  could  tempt  me  away  from  him  at  twice 
the  salary,  even  if  they  had  the  money,  which  of  course 
they  haven't,  and  everybody  knows  that  Goldringer 's  Kos- 
mic  Krackerjack  Releases  are  the  biggest  money-makers 
on  the  market  to-day,  even  if  their  ads  do  admit  it. 

Well,  anyways,  Al  and  I  are,  for  manager  and  star,  on 
the  best  of  terms ;  but  I  always  get  the  terms  down  in  black 
and  white  over  his  signature  just  the  same,  which  is  maybe 
one  reason  why  we  continue  friendly.  Believe  me,  it's  a 
poor  thing  to  do  business  with  a  friend ;  but  a  friend  which 
you  make  through  doing  business  is  quite  another  matter, 
and  one  of  the  best  kind  you  can  make,  and  Al  is  one  of 
those.  And  so  naturally  when  he  rang  up  and  said  that  if 
I  was  to  try  and  force  my  way  into  his  office  he'd  be  there, 
why,  I  said  all  right  I  'd  make  the  effort,  and  he  says  when, 
and  I  says  two  o  'clock  prompt,  and  he  says  alright  he  would 
expect  me  by  five,  sure,  and  hung  up. 

When  he  had  done  so  I  went  and  put  a  marker  in  the  book 
which  I  was  reading  to  improve  myself  for  Junior's  sake. 


West  Broadway  g 

It  was  by  a  bird  named  Charles  Lamb  and  was  called  the 
Essays  of  Elia,  and  believe  me  it  was  a  job  I  was  not  alto- 
gether unwilling  to  lay  off  of.  One  thing  I  will  say  about 
that  book,  however — the  one  who  wrote  it  will  never  be  able 
to  sell  the  picture  rights,  I  don't  care  if  it  is  famous.  I 
may  not  know  much  about  art,  but  I  know  what  will  screen 
and  this  fellow  Lamb  don't.  "Well,  anyways,  I  put  a  marker 
in  it,  because  otherwise  I  would  never  of  found  my  place 
again,  and  then  I  went  and  gave  myself  a  careful  inspection 
in  the  mirror  and  near-privacy  of  my  boudoir.  I  never  get 
a  call  but  that  I  rush  for  the  mirror  right  afterward  to  see 
is  my  face  still  there — I  mean  still  good  for  the  silver  sheet ; 
and  any  actor  or  actress  will  know  how  I  feel,  and  this  lack 
of  full  confidence  in  myself  is  probably  what  makes  me  the 
great  artist  that  I  am. 

Well,  I  pulled  up  both  the  window  shades  and  made 
the  examination  thorough,  but  without  disastrous  results, 
or  in  other  words,  a  single  line  anywheres,  and  found 
myself  still  perfectly  good  for  a  full  close-up  in  spite  of  a 
six  months'  old  baby  and  a  husband  that  was  working  with 
another  woman.  And  while  I  was  examining  my  front  teeth 
in  walks  ma  without  knocking,  and  that's  all  the  privacy  I 
get,  and  you  know  how  it  feels  when  anybody  catches  you 
doing  a  thing  like  that  which  is  one  of  the  disadvantages 
of  relatives. 

' '  Ma  Gilligan, ' '  I  says,  turning  on  her  in  my  pink  kimono 
and  a  good  deal  of  annoyance — "Ma  Gilligan,  how  many 
times  have  I  told  you  that  this  is  my  room?" 

"Well,  dearie,"  says  ma,  "I  ain't  going  to  take  it  away. 
I  only  want  to  tell  you  that  nurse  of  yours  is  putting  your 
child  outdoors  to  sleep  in  the  rain." 

' '  Well,  what  of  it  ? "  I  says.  ' '  You  know  he  always  sleeps 
out.  How  many  times  have  I  told  you  she's  a  trained  nurse 
and  not  to  interfere  with  her?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  who  trained  her,"  says  ma,  very 


1O  West  Broadway 

indignant.  "But  I  never  raised  you  any  such  crazy  way. 
Trained!  Huh!  Trained  monkey!" 

"Now,  ma,  just  you  keep  your  mind  off  your  past,"  I 
says.  "This  is  no  circus,  but  a  modern  New  York  home," 
I  says,  "and  what  is  more,  I'm  running  it." 

' '  That 's  right !  Lay  onto  your  poor  old  ma  which  don 't 
know  anything ! ' '  says  she.  ' '  It  ain  't  my  flat  and  I  wouldn  't 
interfere  for  worlds !  What  you  do  ain 't  none  of  my  busi- 
ness. Are  you  goin'  out?" 

"Yes,"  says  I,  taking  down  a  pussyfoot-silk  street  dress 
with  no  neck  or  sleeves  or  very  much  skirt,  but  the  latest 
effort  of  Paris,  Broadway  &  Co. 

"Where  you  goin'?"  says  ma. 

"To  the  studio,"  I  says  brief. 

There  was  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  of  gone  into  details 
except  that  she  was  my  relation  and  living  with  me,  and 
anybody  who  has  the  same  conditions  will  understand. 
You  just  got  to  keep  something  to  yourself,  whether  it's  a 
secret  or  not. 

"Well,  what  for?"  says  ma. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  says,  exasperated  with  home  life  and 
lying  unnecessarily. 

"When  will  you  be  home?"  ma  goes  on. 

' '  I  don 't  know  that  either ! "  I  snapped.  ' '  Can 't  I  do  any- 
thing except  under  a  magnifying  glass?" 

"Leave  me  tell  you,  Mary  Gilligan  Smith  La  Tour,"  says 
ma,  putting  her  hands  on  her  hips  in  her  no-nonsense  man- 
ner— "leave  me  tell  you  that  ain't  the  way  to  talk  to  your 
mommer !  You  're  getting  too  big  in  the  head,  you  are,  and 
I've  a  good  mind  to  turn  you  over  my  knee  and  hit  you 
a  few  licks  where  it  would  do  you  the  most  good. ' ' 

And  with  that  she  turned  away  and  marched  out  of  my 
room,  which  was  what  I  wanted,  only  it  left  me  no  chance 
to  answer.  But  it  being  by  then  ten  minutes  to  two  o'clock 
and  Al's  office  more  than  half  an  hour  away,  I  stopped  not 


West  Broadway  1 1 

to  heed  her,  as  the  poet  says,  but  slipped  and  struggled  into 
the  pussyfoot,  a  sweet  little  costume  the  color — on  the  word 
of  the  saleslady — of  elephant's  breath;  added  a  ostrich 
feather  toque  which  looked  like  a  big  yellow  chrysantheum 
that  somebody  had  sat  on,  and  being  then  arrayed  in  that 
latest  cruelty  of  style  known  as  a  robe  pneumonia,  I  went 
down  and  humped  myself  into  a  corner  of  the  waiting 
limousine  which  was  also  of  the  low-necked  or  pneumonia 
type,  and  remained  lost  in  thought  while  we  stuttered 
through  the  traffic. 

Among  other  things,  I  thought  how  uneducated  ma  is, 
and  felt  sorry  for  her  as  only  a  daughter  could.  Among  all 
the  daughters  who  have  regarded  their  ma  with  sorrowful 
kindly  pity,  I  probably  was  as  condescending  and  sympa- 
thetic as  any.  Of  course,  I  fully  appreciate  ma  and  her 
good  sense  on  all  the  subjects  which  I  agree  with  her  on, 
and  she  certainly  done  a  fine  job  with  me,  and  only  for 
her  I  would  not  be  where  I  am  to-day.  But  ma  had  a  lot 
of  weak  points  which  was  not  her  fault  but  her  misfortune, 
and  for  all  my  love,  nobody  appreciated  them  better  than  I. 

For  one  thing,  she  was  awful  out  of  date  and  showed  no 
signs  of  wishing  to  catch  up.  And  for  another,  she  was 
dreadfully  uneducated — her  grammar  was  certainly  some- 
thing fierce !  This  worried  me  a  lot,  because  in  about  a 
year  and  a  half  Junior  would  be  talking,  and  when  he 
learned  I  wanted  to  learn  him  to  talk  right,  and  ma  sure 
did  promise  to  be  a  awful  influence.  I  had  never  noticed 
ma's  talk  in  the  old  days  before  the  baby  come,  except  to 
realize  that  it  didn't  have  quite  the  pep  that  it  might  of. 
Nor  did  I  think  much  about  education  either  for  her  or  Jim 
or  even  for  myself,  except  along  the  lines  of  my  own  work 
on  the  stage  or  screen.  But  now  I  realized  more  every  day 
that  one  of  the  hardest  things  about  having  a  child  is  that 
it  takes  you  for  an  example,  and  as  a  rule  it  is  mistaken  un- 
less you  make  it  come  true.  And  I  realized  more  than  ever 


12  West  Broadway 

that  I  must  improve  myself  for  Junior's  sake  and  pry  off 
a  little  culture  so's  it  would  eventually  rub  off  onto  him, 
and  make  Jim  do  the  same  so  the  boy  need  never  be  ashamed 
of  his  parents  or  pity  them  or  think  them  old-fashioned. 
And  then  I  thought  of  Mr.  Chas.  Angora  Lamb  and  decided 
I'd  read  that  book  through  if  it  killed  me,  for  my  dear 
son 's  sake,  and  then  I  was  brought  back  to  earth  by  arrival 
at  Al's  office  at  only  a  quarter  to  three,  which  is  prompt- 
ness itself  as  time  is  counted  in  the  motion-picture  world. 

Well,  I  needn't  of  hurried  so  much,  because  when  I  got 
there  Al  himself  was  up  in  the  projection  room  looking  at  a 
picture  which  is  how  they  generally  keep  a  appointment  in 
this  man's  business.  But  after  two  boys  had  one  after 
another  been  sent  to  tell  him,  why,  he  remembered  his  date 
with  me  and  come  down,  cigar  and  all. 

"Well,  kid,  I  got  a  picture  for  you,"  he  says,  shaking 
hands.  ' '  Park  yourself  in  the  comfy  chair  and  leave  us  row 
over  it." 

"All  right,  Al,"  I  says.  "Spill  the  story— I  hope  it's  a 
good  one." 

"It's  great!"  says  Al.  "High-class  script,  but  snappy 
and  with  a  swell  bedroom  scene  in  it." 

"You  know  I  don't  make  that  kind  of  stuff,  Al,"  I  says, 
"so  keep  the  rest  of  it  to  yourself." 

"Hold  on,  don't  go!"  says  Al.  "This  is  a  classic.  It's 
called — let  me  see" — he  give  a  look  among  the  papers — 
"the  title  is  Romeo  and  Juliet." 

"Oh!"  says  I.     "By  William  Shakspere?" 

' '  That 's  him ! ' '  says  Al.  ' '  That 's  the  bird !  Well-known 
English  playwright,  but  the  scenario  department  says  he's 
been  dead  a  long  time,  so  there's  no  copyright  on  it,  and 
we  can  jazz  it  up  a  lot  to  make  it  screen  good." 

"Al  Goldringer,"  I  says,  "where  is  your  education?" 
I  says.  "Don't  you  know  Shakspere  is  a  great 
poet?" 


West  Broadway  13 

"Will  we  be  able  to  make  onr  titles  from  the  bookT" 
says  Al. 

"Probably,"  I  says,  very  much  disgusted  with  his 
lack  of  culture.  "But  what's  the  use  picking  on  you  be- 
cause you  ain't  literary?  I  bet  you  never  read  a  line  of 
Shakspere  in  your  life!" 

"No,  I  didn't!"  says  Al  with  a  grin.    "Did  you?" 

"Well,  no,"  I  had  to  admit.  "But  I  know  what  his 
leading  parts  are — Hamlet,  Othello,  Rosalind,  Juliet,  Ed- 
ward the  Seventh  and — and  Ivanhoe.  All  the  old  stars 
play  them  for  Art's  Sake  about  the  time  they  can't  put 
popular  stuff  across  any  longer." 

"Aw,  restrain  yourself,  Marie!"  says  Al.  "I  know 
Shakspere  is  a  classic,  and  that  while  he  may  be  old 
on  the  stage,  it's  new  stuff  for  the  silver  sheet,  and  it's  a 
big  thing  for  you — I'm  not  fooling.  We  are  going  to 
spend  five  hundred  thousand  if  necessary  on  this  produc- 
tion, and  if  it's  as  good  as  I  think  it  will  be  we'll  do  a 
series  of  'em.  Bring  Shakspere  to  the  people,  see?  How's 
that  for  an  idea,  eh?" 

"Al,"  I  says  solemnly,  "it's  a  bird,  and  as  you  say, 
a  wonderful  chance  for  me.  How  did  you  come  to  think 
of  it?" 

"The  scenario  department  thought  of  it,"  says  Al.  "I 
only  O.  K.'d  it." 

"Well,"  I  says,  "it's  the  best  news  I've  heard  in  a 
long  time,  and  fits  right  in  with  my  ambitions,  because  no 
passee  actress  could  get  away  with  Juliet  on  the  screen, 
and  I'll  be  the  first  young  one  on  record.  Al,  I'm  going 
to  say  a  prayer  or  two  for  you." 

"Better  say  a  dozen  for  me,"  says  Al  with  a  grin. 
"And  now  let's  get  down  to  brass  contracts.  I  suppose 
you  think  you  want  some  real  money  for  making  this." 

"Oh,  no!"  I  says..    "I'm  willing  to  sacrifice  a  lot  for 


14  West  Broadway 

Art's  Sake.  Ill  take  fifty  thousand  flat  and  a  piece  of 
the  picture — say  ten  on  the  net  royalties." 

"You're  crazy  like  a  fox,"  says  Al. 

And  then  we  was  off,  Al  leading  at  the  post,  and  for 
half  an  hour  the  storm  raged,  but  in  the  end  we  compro- 
mised on  fifty  thousand  and  a  ten  per  cent,  royalty.  Al 
is  always  like  that — he's  got  to  do  his  regular  exercises  or 
he  don't  feel  healthy.  And  when  it  was  all  settled  we 
come  down  to  the  cast. 

"Now  about  Borneo, "  says  Al.  "At  the  contract  you're 
getting  you  ought  to  throw  in  Jim's  services  so  I  can  bill 
a  double-header." 

"Play  opposite  my  husband  when  he  could  be  making  a 
separate  picture  at  the  same  time  and  twice  the  money?" 
I  says.  "Not  much!"  I  says.  "And  what  is  further,  Al, 
for  over  a  year  now  he's  been  working  with  that  woman 
Ruby  Boselle,  and  if  you  think  I'm  going  to  pass  up  the 
chance  of  playing  Juliet  to  the  Romeo  of  some  handsome 
stranger  you  got  to  think  again. ' ' 

"You  ought  to  keep  your  domestic  affairs  out  of  our  art, 
girlie,"  says  Al. 

"Not  in  the  pictures,"  I  says  quickly.  "It  wouldn't 
be  natural." 

"Well,  then,  well  use  Roman  Egler,"  says  Al.  "He's 
kind  of  a  Dago  type.  When  can  you  be  ready  to  start  for 
the  coast?" 

Believe  me,  that  was  a  bolt  from  the  well-known  blue  I 
I  had  never  made  a  picture  on  the  coast  in  my  life,  and  the 
suggestion  was  certainly  bad  news  to  me. 

' '  The  coast  ?  What  d  'yer  mean  coast  ? "  I  says.  ' '  What 
ails  the  Atlantic  Coast  all  of  a  sudden?" 

"We  got  absolutely  no  room  to  make  it  here,"  says  Al. 
"Besides,  we  can  do  a  lot  better  job  at  Hollywood.  I 
thought  you'd  just  love  to  go  to  sunny  California." 


West  Broadway  15 

"Have  a  heart,  Al!"  I  says.  "What  do  I  want  with 
going  out  to  a  jay  place  like  that?" 

"How  do  you  know  it's  a  jay  place?''  says  Al.  "Ever 
been  there?" 

"No,"  I  says,  "and  I  don't  want  to  go.  I  want  to  stay 
right  here  in  civilized  little  old  N.  Y." 

"But  you'll  like  the  coast,"  says  Al.  "Have  you  been 
anywheres  besides  this  man 's  city  ? ' ' 

' '  Sure,  I  have ! "  I  says.  ' '  Ain  't  I  played  the  Audubon 
Circuit  in  my  past — Rochester,  Buffalo,  Toronto?  And  I 
been  in  Boston,  Trenton  and  as  far  south  as  Philly.  I've 
traveled  a  lot,  Al,  and  I  know  there's  only  one  place  in 
America  worth  living  in,  and  that's  the  famous  village  of 
Manhattan.  You  can't  tell  me!" 

"I  don't  attempt  to  tell  a  woman  anything,"  says  Al, 
"unless  she's  working  for  me.  And  this  picture  is  going 
to  be  made  out  West." 

"Then  get  somebody  else  to  make  it!"  I  says.  "What 
d'you  think  I  am,  a  hick?  Why,  I  couldn't  stand  any  place 
but  New  York,  Al!  I  got  to  be  at  the  source  of  things 
to  get  any  inspiration  for  my  work.  There's  only  one 
New  York,  Al,  and  I've  got  to  work  here.  Why,  that 
fillum  will  take  a  couple  of  months  to  make,  and  what 
would  I  do  evenings  way  out  there?" 

"Say,  where  was  you  born,  Miss  Broadway?"  says  Al. 

"Bridgeport,"  I  says,  "where  the  circus  was  when 
the  stork  out  of  the  menagerie  strolled  over  to  ma's  quar- 
ters; but  I  was  raised  on  Avenue  A — and  raised  is  right. 
I  raised  myself  from  there  to  Broadway  and  Riverside 
Drive  and  you  know  it ! " 

"I  ought  to — I  helped  just  a  little  to  put  you  there," 
says  Al.  "And  so  you  ought  to  realize  it's  to  your  ad- 
vantage to  go  to  the  coast." 

"Coast!"  I  says,  fed  up  with  the  word.  "The  coast 
is  right  here,  Al  Goldringer — you  ought  to  realize  that — 


16  West  Broadway 

the  only  coast  that  counts,  at  least.  And  I  'm  going  to  stay 
right  on  it!  I'm  not  going  to  be  parked  any  place  for 
three  months  with  the  engine  shut  off  and  get  rusty  and 
let  my  battery  die  for  you  or  anybody  else.  Where  would 
I  get  any  new  clothes?  I 'd  die,  that 's  what !  No,  sir,  not 
to  speak  of  the  trip  out  and  back!  Why,  I  wouldn't 
take  that  trip  for  worlds ! ' ' 

"Lots  of  folks  take  it  for  less,"  says  Al. 

"But  not  sister!"  says  I.  "No,  Al,  if  it  means  leaving 
the  one  real  town  it's  all  off." 

And  I  got  up  to  go,  leaving  plenty  of  time  to  urge  him 
over  to  my  side  between  my  chair  and  the  door  in  the  true 
womanly  way.  But  for  once  I  planned  in  vain. 

"Well,  don't  say  that,  Mary,"  says  Al  firmly.  "It's 
a  big  proposition — don't  turn  it  down  so  easy.  I  give  you 
one  week  to  decide,  and  the  contracts  will  be  ready  to  sign 
any  time  after  to-morrow.  And  when  you  decide  to  go 
give  me  a  call." 

"I  won't  go!"  I  says.    "Certainly  not  at  the  money." 

"I'll  pay  expenses,"  says  Al. 

"Well,  I  won't  go  anyways!"  I  says.  "New  York  is 
America  so  far  as  I'm  concerned,  and  I  want  to  stay  in 
it.  But  I'll  think  it  over  and  say  no  again  at  the  end  of 
a  week  if  it  will  make  you  feel  any  better." 

Well,  then  I  went  out  of  the  private  office  and  through 
the  crowd  of  admiring  stenographers,  office  boys  and 
would-be  picture  stars  who  were  waiting  on  the  mourners' 
bench,  and  was  shot  down  in  the  elevator  to  the  street 
level,  my  mind  all  scrambled  like  an  egg  and  hardly  know- 
ing what  I  did  want  to  do  anyways.  So  when  I  got  out 
onto  the  street,  which  was  West  Fortieth  and  Sixth,  I  de- 
cided to  combine  slimness  and  pleasure,  and  so  I  told  Rollo 
the  chauffeur,  to  take  the  pneumonia  car  home  for  a  rest 
and  I  would  walk. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  September,  but  cool  and  sparkling 


West  Broadway  17 

like  a  new-style-cut-five-carrot  diamond  or,  in  other  words, 
as  only  little  old  New  York  can  sparkle.  Of  course  there 
was  some  dust  and  some  papers  flying  around,  but  in  spite 
of  the  wind  it  sure  was  a  grand  afternoon;  and  when  I 
looked  at  my  almost  native  city  through  eyes  which  had 
just  been  requested  to  go  away  and  leave  it  I  seen  plainer 
than  ever  that  there  would  be  nothing  stirring,  or  at  least 
that  I  would  not  stir  out  of  it  any  further  than  to  maybe 
a  road  house  with  a  few  friends  now  and  then. 

Of  course,  I  will  say  of  New  York  that  the  administra- 
tion is  fierce,  and  they  say  there's  lots  of  graft  going  onj 
but  that  don't  affect  the  wonderful  department  stores  any, 
does  it?  And  while  the  pavements  on  many  streets  is  a 
disgrace,  it's  hard  to  beat  Central  Park.  And  no  matter 
what  you  say  against  the  empire  city,  you  got  to  admit 
also  that  there's  only  one  New  York. 

"Well,  anyways,  I  felt  kind  of  uplifted,  and  my  feet  felt 
almost  like  they  was  dancing,  and  I  sure  was  glad  I  had 
decided  to  stay.  I  felt  I  liked  everybody  and  wanted  to 
be  kind  to  them,  and  when,  as  I  was  crossing  Bryant  Park, 
I  seen  a  cop  chasing  some  kids  off  the  grass  I  felt  like 
chasing  him  for  it,  but  didn't.  I  only  walked  on  feeling 
good  because  it  had  occurred  to  me.  Do  you  get  me? 

Then  when  I  got  to  Fifth  with  all  the  handsome  cars 
and  bum  old  taxis  crawling  on  it,  and  the  people  darting 
in  and  out  between  them  with  no  regard  to  the  traffic 
laws  the  way  they  do,  and  all  the  general  excitement,  I 
decided  I  would  prolong  the  pleasant  agony  of  a  walk  on 
the  Avenue  by  dropping  into  a  bookstore  I  had  seen  along 
there  somewheres  and  buy  a  couple  more  pages  of  con- 
densed culture,  because  I  was  getting  awful  tired  of  Lamb 
and  kind  of  hankered  after  a  little  mint  sauce  or  currant 
jelly,  or  maybe  there  might  be  some  other  animal  I  could 
switch  to  for  a  change. 

So  I  walked  along  in  the  crowd,  not  meeting  even  one 


i8  West  Broadway 

person  I  had  ever  seen  before,  and  ain't  it  the  truth  this 
happens  most  times  when  you  take  a  walk  in  New  York? 
But  looking  at  the  shop  windows  as  I  went  and  seeing  all 
the  smart  things  in  them  was  a  pleasure  in  itself,  and  I 
also  realized,  of  course,  I  would  never  see  these  things  in 
any  other  city,  nor  any  such  buildings  either,  nor  so  many 
of  them.  New  York  is  a  he-city,  where  the  original  inven- 
tor of  pep  and  jazz  was  born — or  no,  maybe  not  quite  that 
or  he  wouldn  't  of  been  a  real  New  Yorker,  but  come  there 
young  and  adopted  the  burg,  and  anyways  the  town  seemed 
to  me  like  it  owned  a  little  over  fifty-one  per  cent  of  the 
snap  in  the  whole  U.  S.  A.  And  that  poor  fish  Al  Gold- 
ringer  wanted  me  to  move  out  where  I  could  watch  the 
pansies  grow !  I  was  fond  of  Art  and  anxious  to  improve 
mine,  and  it  would  be  swell  to  make  a  production  like 
Juliet  and  Romeo,  because  naturally  they  would  have  to 
bill  it  that  way  if  I  was  to  play  the  lead,  and  anyways 
I  never  saw  a  book  yet  which  you  couldn't  improve  on 
the  title  of  it  for  picture  purposes.  And  then  I  got  to 
thinking  what  a  good  part  it  would  be  for  me,  and  began 
to  feel  sort  of  sick  at  having  to  give  it  up,  because  I  knew 
Al  wouldn't  compromise  with  me  about  making  it  at 
Yonkers,  because  he  runs  his  business  and  never  lets  any- 
body assist  him  at  it,  especially  stars.  I  can  get  him  to 
change  his  mind  about  money,  because  he  always  starts  the 
argument  all  prepared  to  change  it  at  the  right  moment 
— that  comes  to  him  natural  on  account  of  his  pa  once 
running  a  two-price  clothing  store  down  on  Grand  Street. 
But  on  running  the  studio — nix!  He's  got  the  capacity 
worked  out  like  a  freight  agent,  and  you  couldn't  change 
his  plans  with  dynamite. 

And  so  I  seen  my  chance  to  realize  the  ambition  of 
every  actress  from  sixteen  to  sixty,  make  a  beautiful  fade- 
out  and  dissolve  into  a  long-shot  of  Marie  La  Tour  sitting 
at  home  and  minding  ma  so  that  the  trained  nurse  would 


West  Broadway  19 

be  left  free  to  mind  the  baby,  and  the  way  I  felt  about  it, 
the  footage  on  this  scene  was  a  great  deal  too  long.  I 
got  fed  up  with  it,  even  if  I  had  the  feature  part.  And 
just  as  I  had  myself  worked  up  to  a  high  stage  of  peevish- 
ness and  irritability  because  Los  Angeles  wasn  't  in  Harlem 
I  come  to  that  bookstore  that  I  had  remembered  noticing 
which  wasn't  where  it  used  to  be,  but  a  candy  store  was 
there  instead,  and  the  bookstore  was  five  blocks  further  any- 
way, but  I  had  walked  that  far,  so  that  was  all  right.  And 
the  bookstore  had  shoved  its  way  into  the  front  of  a  old 
private  brownstone  house  the  way  they  do  on  the  Avenue, 
so  that  the  street  level  was  all  plate  glass  and  condensed 
culture  but  the  upper  part  still  plain  private  brownstone, 
the  same  as  most  of  our  fine  shops.  Not  that  it  matters, 
because  no  New  Yorker  is  supposed  to  rubber  at  the  upper 
part.  Only  the  hicks  do  that. 

"Well,  anyways,  I  went  in,  and  it  was  the  first  time  I 
ever  went  into  a  bookstore,  and  judging  by  the  absence  of 
customers  I  expect  I  am  one  of  the  very  few  who  has  had 
this  experience.  Far  from  being  like  a  drug  store,  which 
as  everybody  knows  has  everything  but  drugs,  this  place 
looked  like  a  regular  public  library.  I'll  say  it  did!  Not 
that  I  ever  was  in  one  myself,  the  front  steps  of  it  during 
a  Liberty  Loan  being  as  near  as  I  ever  come  to  one.  But 
what  I  mean  to  say  is  there  was  no  need  to  go  searching 
at  the  back  of  this  store  for  a  perscription  counter. 

And  as  for  the  clerks,  I  '11  tell  the  world  they  had  a  hard 
life!  One  was  giving  heavy  thought  to  whether  he'd  get 
a  manicure  or  not,  and  the  other  two  was  talking  over  last 
night's  poker  game  or  national  politics  or  something  in  a 
far  corner,  but  not  loud  enough  for  a  person  to  hear  which. 
And  did  they  rush  up  and  cover  me  with  attention  ?  They 
did  not !  They  left  me  roam  about  helplessly,  and  after  I 
had  picked  up  several  of  the  samples  that  was  lying  about, 
beginning  with  South  Sea  Sobbings  and  ending  with  Dot- 


20  West  Broadway 

tie  Dimple  at  School  but  none  of  them  appealing  to  me,  I 
commenced  to  feel  sort  of  scared  and  hopeless,  because 
I  could  see  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  read  even  one- 
half  of  what  was  in  that  store.  I  had  commenced  too  late 
in  life,  and  I  could  see  plainly  that  a  person  was  supposed 
to  go  all  the  way  from  Dottie  to  Darwin,  a  writer  which 
was  on  another  table. 

But  finally  I  decided,  why  be  scared?  It's  only  a  shop, 
for  all  they  try  to  make  it  look  like  a  cross  between  a  tomb 
and  a  church,  and  if  it  was  the  Paris  Intime  and  no  pink 
camisoles  in  sight,  why,  what  would  you  do  ?  And  so  hav- 
ing realized  this,  I  acted  accordingly,  and  asked  the  gentle- 
manly clerk  with  the  finger  nails  if  he  was  busy.  He  right 
away  laid  off  them  and  was  all  politeness. 

"At  your  service,"  he  says,  real  cultured.  "Can  I  help 
you  in  any  way?" 

"I  don't  know  but  maybe  I'm  beyond  help,"  I  admitted. 
"You  see,  I  want  to  pry  a  little  general  culture  off  the 
shelf,  and  I  ain't  been  able  to  find  anything  I  can  under- 
stand or  that  interests  me  so  far,  except  a  cookbook,  and 
we  got  one  of  them." 

"I  see,"  says  the  young  man.  "Now  if  you  will  tell 
me  a  little  more  of  what  your  plan  is  perhaps  I  can  help 
you  out." 

"Well,  it's  like  this,"  I  began.  "You  see,  I  am  a  act- 
ress by  profession,  and  making  fair  to  middling  good  at 
it,  which  has  kept  me  too  busy  to  get  a  great  deal  of  book 
education." 

' '  I  see, ' '  says  the  bird,  taking  real  notice,  and  not  merely 
professional  notice  now. 

"And  so  long  as  I  had  no  kid  it  didn't  matter  much," 
I  went  on.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  never  give  it  a  thought. 
But  now  I  realize  I  got  to  jazz  up  my  mind  on  the  kid's 
account — get  some  general  culture  and  everything — stuff 
down  a  little  information,  and  so  forth,  so's  he  won't 


West  Broadway  21 

think  I'm  a  dead  one.  And  so  far  I  ain't  had  much  luck. 
I  found  a  book  by  a  fellow  named  Lamb  in  a  cupboard  ma 
bought  secondhand  for  the  kitchen.  Also  two  by  Thoreau 
and  some  poetry  by  a  kind  of  a  nut  named  Browning.  But 
either  they  are  dead  from  the  neck  up,  or  I  am,  because 
I  can't  find  any  pleasure  in  them." 

"Well,  I'm  not  altogether  surprised  at  your  not  caring 
for  them,"  says  the  bookkeeper.  "You  find  those  old 
fellows  dull  because  they  are  dull." 

"Then  maybe  I'm  not  such  a  simp  as  I  thought.  Can 
you  give  me  the  works  of  some  live  wires — and  if  possible 
in  pink  bindings  so's  they'll  go  good  in  my  boudoir  after 
I'm  through  with  them?" 

"Well,  I'm  not  so  sure  about  the  bindings,"  says  the 
print  hound,  smiling  gently  in  such  a  way  he  let  me  know 
I'd  made  a  break  there.  "But  I  certainly  can  give  you 
some  fine,  live  modern  reading.  Why  go  back  to  the  Vic- 
torians?" he  goes  on.  "Read  the  things  of  to-day — vigor- 
ous real  things.  By  Jove,  that 's  what  a  real  man  or  woman 
wants!  No  wonder  you  got  discouraged.  Now,  will  you 
really  let  me  help?  I'll  be  only  too  happy  to  make  out  a 
list  if  you  will  let  me." 

"Go  to  it!"  I  says  enthusiastically.  "Only  break  me  in 
kind  of  easy.  I'm  in  your  hands." 

"Good!"  says  the  Spelling  Book  Binder.  "This  is  a 
great  privilege — Miss  La  Tour,  is  it  not?" 

Whatter  you  know  about  that!  Of  course,  I  melted 
entirely  then,  just  like  any  other  well-known  personality 
who  of  course  cares  nothing  for  fame.  And  so  I  modestly 
admitted  that  it  was  really  me,  and  then  the  big  selection 
commenced. 

"Now,  what  you  want  is  some  Russian  stuff,"  he  began. 

"Hold  on!"  I  says.    "No  Russian  stuff  for  mine!" 

"Oh,  but  really,"  says  he,  "you  must  read  Prince  Mud- 
gaard's  Prunes!  It's  wonderful — simply  wonderful!" 


22  West  Broadway 

"All  right,  111  read  it,"  I  says,  "if  it's  the  thing  to  do." 

"And  then  we'll  have  Gogol's  Dead  Souls  and  a  Dun- 
sany  play  or  two.  You'll  love  Dunsany!  For  poetry,  I 
think  Amy  Lowell  will  do  for  a  beginning.  And  you 
simply  must  have  a  copy  of  Karl  Westman's  new  book 
Arise  America!" 

"Sure,  give  me  that!"  I  says.  It  listens  the  best  of  the 
lot  to  me ! ' ' 

"It's  a  wonderful  book — simply  wonderful!"  says  the 
brainy  young  thing.  "Mr.  Westman  comes  in  here  often. 
I  know  him  rather  well." 

Somehow  that  name  of  Westman  sounded  awfully  fa- 
miliar to  me,  but  I  couldn't  just  think  why  at  the  time. 
So  I  just  says  "Oh,  yes,  how  interesting!"  in  a  tone  like 
I  knew  all  about  him.  Also  I  looked  hard  at  the  book  he 
had  written — a  neat  and  harmless-appearing  cover  was  on 
it,  all  pale  gray  like  a  gift  book.  So  naturally  I  didn't 
feel  any  impulse  to  open  it. 

"Personally  I  believe  he's  one  of  the  most  important 
writers  in  the  country  to-day,"  went  on  the  Bookworm. 

' '  Of  course ! ' '  says  I,  my  mind  like  a  new  vacuum  cleaner 
but  not  willing  to  admit  it. 

"And  by  Jove,  here  he  comes  now!"  exclaimed  my 
guide,  philosopher  and  salesman  brightly.  "What  luck! 
He  runs  in  nearly  every  day  to  see  how  his  book  is  going. 
Will  you  let  me  bring  him  over?" 

And  then,  without  giving  me  a  chance  to  vote,  off  jumps 
that  culture  fiend  toward  a  man  who  had  just  come  lan- 
guidly in,  and  left  me  standing  sort  of  paralyzed  and 
wishing  I  was  on  location  or  at  home  or  any  place  where 
they  have  to  telephone  up  before  they  can  get  in.  Not 
that  a  well-known  person  like  myself  is  unaccustomed  to 
meeting  people,  but  an  author  is  a  different  matter,  and 
not  exactly  human,  and  by  the  way  I  felt  while  the  sales- 
man was  bringing  him  over  I  begin  to  understand  why 


West  Broadway  23 

authors  are  called  Lions.  It's  the  way  you  feel  when  you 
meet  them,  and  when  a  kid  with  the  circus  I,  of  course, 
saw  a  lot  of  real  ones,  only  they  was  always  in  a  cage, 
and  Madame  Leonine  was  no  faker  either. 

Well,  anyways,  they  was  fast  approaching  and  I  had 
no  way  out,  and  when  we  were  introduced  I  was  glad  I 
had  remained  at  the  hitching  post. 

"Miss  La  Tour,"  says  Westman,  "I  can't  tell  you  how 
delighted  I  am  at  this  opportunity !  I  Ve  wanted  to  know 
you  for  a  long  time.  Do  you  know,  you  are  one  of  the 
few  stars  I  ever  go  to  see?" 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  I  says.  "And  I  may  add  you 
are  one  of  the  few  authors  who's  books  I  buy."  And  I 
waved  it  at  him,  being  fortunately  caught  with  the  goods. 

"You've  actually  read  my  stuff  then?"  says  the  hand- 
some author. 

"Yes,  all  of  them,  and  I  think  they  are  simply  wonder- 
ful ! "  I  says,  and  God  forgive  me  for  the  lie — I  don 't  sup- 
pose anybody  ever  told  one  like  it  before.  But  I  got  away 
with  it  all  right,  as  he  didn't  ask  me  any  questions  like  I 
was  afraid  he  would,  but  only  beamed  and  swallowed  not 
only  what  I  said  but  what  I  implied. 

"Miss  La  Tour,"  says  Mr.  Westman,  shaking  his  curly 
locks,  "I  have  discovered  the  incredible — a  motion-picture 
actress  who  belongs  to  the  Intelligensia. " 

"Oh,  but  I  don't!"  I  says.  "I  only  belong  to  the  Red 
Cross  and  the  White  Kittens  Theatrical  Ladies'  Associa- 
tion." 

Mr.  Westman  seemed  to  think  this  was  funny,  and  he 
didn't  hesitate  to  say  so. 

' '  A  wit  as  well ! ' '  said  he.  "  Keally,  my  dear  young  lady, 
I  'm  not  going  to  lose  sight  of  you !  I  Ve  got  some  scenarios 
that  I  think  you'd  be  perfect  in,  and  I  want  you  to  see 
them.  How  about  a  little  dinner  to-night?" 

"Well,"  I  says,  a  good  deal  impressed  by  a  real,  genuine 


24  West  Broadway 

author  wanting  to  write  especially  for  me,  "I  don't  know 
is  my  husband  free.  But  we  might  phone  to  the  studio 
and  find  out  is  he  going  to  get  through  or  will  he  have  to 
work  to-night,  and  if  he  can  accept — why,  we  would  be 
charmed,  I'm  sure." 

Well,  Mr.  Westman  was  game,  even  though  I  am  happy 
to  say  he  looked  disappointed  about  the  husband,  and  long 
may  men  look  at  me  so,  if  you  get  me !  And  I  went  and 
phoned  to  Jim,  and  he  said  who  the  devil  was  Westman, 
but  all  right  if  I  wanted  to;  and  I  wanted  to  all  right, 
because  I  intended  to  take  a  script  off  this  great  author 
if  it  was  any  good ;  or  maybe  the  picture  rights  to  America 
Arise,  which  was  a  pretty  good  title  if  you  put  Miss  before 
it.  Only,  of  course,  I  did  not  tell  Mr.  Westman  right  off 
the  reel,  because  that  would  of  been  bad  business,  but 
expected  to  spring  it  on  Al  and  make  it  in  the  East  when 
there  was  room. 

"That  will  be  delightful,"  says  Mr.  Westman  when  I 
told  him  what  Jim  had  said,  omitting  the  part  which  was 
fit  only  for  wifely  ears.  "How  splendid!  Now  I'll  tell 
you  what — we'll  eat  at  the  Mocking  Turtle,  a  little  place 
I  know  of  down  in  Greenwich  Village.  It'll  be  a  change 
for  you,  Miss  La  Tour,  and  we  are  almost  certain  to  meet 
some  interesting  people.  Shall  we  say  at  seven  ? ' ' 

So  I  said  seven,  and  Mr.  Westman  went  away  to  a  meet- 
ing, very  full  of  business,  but  so  plainly  tickled  that  I 
commenced  to  wonder  wasn't  I  the  lion  instead  of  him. 
It  give  me  a  real  thrill  to  feel  myself  associated  with  the 
highbrow  world  like  that,  and  naturally  I  wanted  to  be 
primed  for  it  right. 

"Look  here,  captain!"  I  says  to  the  sales  gentleman 
when  Mr.  Westman  had  gone.  "Look  here — tell  me  a  little 
something  about  the  Great  Man,  will  you?  So  I  can  talk 
intelligently,  you  know.  I  noticed  his  hands  looked  awful 
rough  for  a  writer." 


West  Broadway  25 

"Well,  no  wonder!"  says  the  book  herder  with  a  deep 
sigh  of  near-sympathy.  "They  put  him  on  the  rock  pile 
at  the  penitentiary,  you  know." 

"What?"  I  says,  thinking  there  must  be  some  mistake. 
But  there  wasn't.  The  bird  only  gives  another  sigh  and 
shook  his  head — as  much  in  pride  as  in  pity. 

"He's  only  been  out  two  months,"  he  informs  me. 


A  GOOD  time  to  tell  a  husband  anything  that  can  be 
argued  about  is  while  he  is  fighting  his  way  into  a 
dress  shirt,  or  maybe  with  his  mouth  full  of  tooth  paste, 
which  gives  him  time  to  think  twice  before  coming  back  at 
you.  By  a  long  wifely  experience  I  have  learned  this, 
and  so  that  evening  when  I  got  home  I  waited  until  Jim 
was  at  the  shirt  stage  before  breaking  the  whole  truth  to 
him.  He  had  got  back  from  the  studio  late,  and  com- 
menced flinging  off  his  coat  and  hollering  for  his  dress 
suit  almost  before  he  was  properly  inside  the  flat,  and  you 
would  of  thought  it  was  my  fault  he  was  late,  and  he  al- 
ways pulls  the  first  holler,  and  if  he  keeps  it  up  long 
and  loud  enough  he  gets  away  with  it;  and  I  sometimes 
think  maybe  I  am  to  blame  because  he  missed  the  ferry  or 
the  car  broke  down  or  whatever  was  the  cause  of  the  delay. 

And  any  other  wife  will  confess  to  the  fact  that  hus- 
bands have  an  awful  mysterious  way  of  putting  you  in 
the  wrong  for  something  they  have  done  their  own  selves, 
and  the  easiest  way  to  restore  peace  is  to  let  them  get  away 
with  it. 

Well,  anyways,  this  evening  I  was  home  and  waiting  in 
a  snappy  black  taffeta  resterant  frock  and  Maison  Rosa- 
belle  had  charged  me  twenty  dollars  extra  for  calling  it  a 
frock  instead  of  a  dress.  Well,  anyways,  I  was  home 
waiting  in  it  and  a  sort  of  calm  excitement  over  being 
about  to  burst  into  highbrow  society,  and  also  a  new  hat 
with  a  tulle  crown  and  a  fur  brim  to  keep  my  brains  warm 
in  case  the  company  was  cold  to  me,  when  in  bursts  Jim, 
his  latchkey  going  wild  and  not  working,  the  way  they 
always  act  when  you  are  in  a  hurry. 
26 


West  Broadway  27 

"Well,  kid,  I  hope  you  are  all  ready,"  he  says  before 
I  could  say  it  to  him,  "because  we  are  late  now,"  he  says. 
"Got  my  things  out?" 

"They  are,"  I  says,  "on  the  bed,  and  I  been  dressed 
for  an  hour." 

"Oh,  you  would,  of  course!  Come  on  in  while  I  jump 
into  the  soup-and-fish  and  tell  me  where  is  this  we  are 
going  that  you  was  so  excited  about  it  on  the  phone." 

So  I  come  in,  and  while  Jim  dug  among  his  collars  and 
swore  at  his  studs  and  snortled  into  the  washbowl  and 
peered  at  me  over  the  top  of  the  towel  he  was  drying  his 
face  on,  and  generally  going  through  the  charming,  dainty 
routine  of  husbandly  dressing,  why,  I  managed  to  slip  in  a 
few  pills  of  information  here  and  there,  and  then  bet 
with  myself  as  to  whether  he  was  listening  or  not. 

"Who's 'is  feller  Westman?"  says  Jim,  feeling  did  he 
need  a  shave  or  not  and  eventually  persuading  himself  in 
the  mirror  that  he  didn't.  "Some  big  bug?" 

"He's  a  great  writer,"  I  says  impressively — "a  real 
one  with  books  on  the  market  and  a  thin  goatee  and  mus- 
tache," I  says.  "And  he  wants  to  write  a  picture  for 
me.  He's  a  real  highbrow,  Jim,"  I  says.  "I  could 
tell  it  on  him  at  a  glance.  And  we  're  going  to  have  dinner 
in  Greenwich  Village  with  him  and  a  lot  of  genuine  artists 
and  writers — no  fake  stuff,  but  the  real  inside  circle." 

' '  Know  anything  else  about  him  ? ' '  says  Jim. 

"Well,  he  belongs  to  a  club  called  the  Intelligensia, "  I 
says. 

"Never  heard  of  it,"  says  Jim  through  his  undershirt. 
"Now,  if  it  was  the  Pineapple  Social  Outing  or  the  Actor's 
Equity  I  might  find  out  something  about  him,"  he  went 
on,  emerging  through  the  neckband. 

"You  don't  need  to,"  I  says,  very  indignant.  "He's 
a  very  famous  person,  and  has  opinions." 


28  West  Broadway 

"What  are  they?"  says  Jim,  diving  into  his  open-faced 
shirt.  It  was  then  that  I  sprung  the  Big  Fact. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  says.  "But  he's  been  to  jail  for 
them." 

Jim  made  some  queer  snorts  inside  the  bosom,  but  I 
went  on  quickly  before  he  could  get  out. 

"At  any  rate,  it's  the  first  chance  we've  had  to  meet 
any  people  with  brains  and  culture,  and  we  are  not  going 
to  miss  it,"  I  says.  "Jail  or  no  jail,  we  are  going  to 
keep  that  date." 

And  then  Jim  appeared,  red  in  the  face  and  gasping 
for  breath. 

"Jail?"  he  says.  "For  the  love  of  Lulu!  Say,  I'm  not 
going  to  eat  with  any  boarder  from  Sing  Sing!" 

"Now,  James  Smith,"  I  says,  "you  listen  to  me,  and  keep 
your  shirt  on!"  not  meaning  that  he  was  actually  taking 
it  off  again,  because  the  dress  ones  are  too  difficult  for 
hasty  action,  but  you  get  me  and  so  did  he.  "Now,  James 
Smith,  you  listen  to  me  and  tuck  away  a  little  information. 
I  got  my  reasons  for  going  downtown  to-night,  and  one 
of  them  is  that  I  want  to  be  informed.  My  mind  enjoys 
working,  and  it  don't  get  much  exercise  at  home.  I  got 
a  strong  hunch  it'll  be  an  interesting  party,  and  after  all 
we  don't  know  what  it  was  Westman  was  jugged  for.  I 
got  a  suspicion  the  same  as  you  have  it  was  some  radical 
opinions,  but  leave  me  tell  you,  Jim,  radical  opinions  can't 
be  ignored  entirely  nowadays.  We  are  living  in  a  world 
which  is  very  much  jazzed  up  in  its  mind,  what  with  the 
income  tax  and  the  high  cost  of  food  and  the  terrible  con- 
fessions of  profiteering  which  we  read  in  the  advertising 
pages  of  the  newspapers  every  day.  Only  a  fool  will  pre- 
tend there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  the  world  and  that 
things  is  the  same  as  they  used  to  be.  That  ostrich  stuff 
won't  get  you  anything  except  maybe  a  wallop  on  the 


West  Broadway  29 

part  which  ain't  stuck  in  the  sand.  So,  I  say,  let's  go 
down  and  listen.  Maybe  we  will  learn  something." 

"Well,"  says  Jim,  and  I'll  say  he  was  pretty  patient 
to  hold  out  that  long,  "if  you  say  so,  Baby,  we'll  go.  Only 
if  I  have  to  start  something  don't  say  I  didn't  warn  you." 

"You'll  start  nothing!"  I  says  firmly.  "These  are 
brainy  birds,  and  we  are  going  to  enjoy  a  little  exchange 
of  ideas.  And  now  leave  that  tie  alone — it's  all  right. 
And  come  on,  we're  late." 

Well,  all  the  way  down  from  Riverside  to  the  Mocking 
Turtle,  which  was  on  West  Fourth  Street,  I  didn't  say 
anything  about  the  offer  Goldringer  had  made  me  or  how 
I  had  at  least  temporarily  refused  it,  but  sat  in  a  daze, 
being  kind  of  scared  about  who  would  I  meet  and  what 
would  I  say  to  them,  but  real  pleased  to  have  the  new 
experience  and  wondering  would  I  get  by  without  giving 
away  how  little  culture  I  had.  Because,  of  course,  I  re- 
alized that  money  is  not  everything  in  life  and  that  educa- 
tion is  a  awful  precious  thing,  and  that  one  who  has  it  can 
make  one  which  has  it  not  feel  cheap,  no  matter  how  much 
money  you  have  and  they  haven't.  Do  you  get  me?  And 
believe  me,  on  that  ride  downtown  I  would  of  exchanged 
my  five-carrot  diamond  ring  for  a  college  education  in  a 
minute  if  I  could  of!  But  never  mind,  I  thought,  I  am 
willing  to  learn,  and  a  open  mind  is  above  rubies  or  five- 
carrot  diamonds  either,  as  the  poet  says,  and  I  have  got 
one. 

And  so  while  Jim  kept  up  a  line  of  talk  about  the  studio 
and  what  a  rotten  director  Art  Wentz  was  and  how  the 
lights  give  out  and  no  extra  fuses  in  a  great  big  studio 
like  that  and  so  forth  and  ect.,  and  perfectly  content  with 
my  wifely  "Indeed,  dear?"  every  now  and  then,  I  kept  get- 
ting more  trembly  inside  me  the  further  downtown  we 
went,  and  wondering  could  I  remember  the  names  of  the 
books  I  had  bought  that  afternoon  so's  to  mention  them 


30  West  Broadway 

carelessly  throughout  the  meal,  and  then  at  last  we  ar- 
rived at  the  Mocking  Turtle. 

Well,  believe  me  that  cafe  reminded  me  of  the  Ritz — it 
was  so  different !  It  had  once  been  a  barber  shop,  but  the 
barber  had  taken  away  all  his  sanitary  fixtures  when  he 
left,  and  now  there  was  an  elegant  cheesecloth  drapery  in 
the  window  and  some  paintings  on  the  glass  which  I  would 
of  taken  to  be  amateur  if  I  hadn't  known  they  were  ar- 
tistic. Hollo,  our  chauffeur,  who  is  sort  of  a  formal  bird, 
looked  worried  when  Jim  told  him  ten  o'clock  would  be 
the  limit,  and  watched  us  into  the  artists'  resort  with  a 
anxious  eye.  But  though  I  hated  to  worry  him,  in  we 
went,  and  there  inside  was  Mr.  Karl  Westman,  goatee  and 
all,  and  he  had  dressed  for  dinner  by  the  simple  process 
of  adding  a  new  black  ribband  to  his  eyeglasses. 

"Ah,  Miss  La  Tour!"  he  says,  coming  forward  eagerly, 
sort  of  surprised  like  he  had  been  afraid  we  wouldn't 
show. 

"This  is  my  husband,  Mr.  James  Smith,"  I  says,  intro- 
ducing Jim. 

And  the  two  shook  hands  like  I  had  said  "both  members 
of  this  club,"  but  it  went  no  farther,  and  then  we  sat 
down  at  a  table  without  any  wasteful  laundry  work  on  it 
and  commenced  to  wait  for  the  others,  as  Mr.  Westman 
explained. 

Inside,  the  Mocking  Turtle  was  one  of  those  restaurants 
where  you  have  to  talk  in  a  whisper  or  not  at  all,  unless 
you  hire  the  whole  place  or  don't  care  who  hears  you. 
Mr.  Westman  didn't  care — he  mad,e  that  plain  'right 
away. 

"I've  brought  you  a  copy  of  my  paper,  The  Arm  of 
Labor,"  he  says,  giving  it  to  me  with  a  something  on  the 
cover  which  I  thought  at  first  was  meant  to  be  cut  out  with 
the  scissors  and  put  together  right  to  amuse  the  little 
ones,  but  which  had  "Dance  of  Spring"  printed  under  it, 


West  Broadway  31 

which  I  read  just  in  time  to  avoid  a  break.  "And  here  is 
a  pamphlet  I  wrote  on  Lenine.  I'm  sure  it  will  interest 
you." 

"Thank  you,"  I  says. 

"But  the  main  thing,"  says  Westman,  "is  the  picture 
possibilities  of  Arise  America.  Have  you  thought  about  it 
at  all  since  this  afternoon?" 

"Not  beyond  the  title,  which  is  great,"  I  says.  "Do 
you  think  it  would  be  a  good  picture?" 

"Magnificent!"  says  Westman.  "It  could  be  built  up 
in  such  a  way  as  to  carry  the  real  message  to  the  people." 

"That's  swell!"  I  says. 

And  then  before  we  could  talk  about  it  any  further  the 
distinguished  company  began  to  come  in  with  a  eager 
air,  but  whether  to  meet  me  or  a  square  meal  I  don't  care 
to  say  in  writing.  And  such  a  lot  of  well-known  names 
among  them!  At  least,  each  time  I  got  introduced  I  had 
the  feeling  that  my  not  knowing  the  name  was  my  own 
ignorance,  and  I  felt  a  mere  siphon  beside  them. 

Among  the  real  invited  guests  at  our  table  was  a  lady 
named  Rosa  Gratz  and  her  husband,  Mr.  Crabtree  Bett. 
I  thought  at  first  she  was  professional  on  account  of  being 
Miss  and  a  different  name  to  her  husband's,  but  it  seems 
she  was  just  a  professional  Miss,  and  that  keeping  her  own 
name  was  all  the  profession  she  had  in  life.  He  was  the 
man  who  had  amalgamated  the  Sausage  Stuff ers'  Union 
or  something.  Anyways,  he  was  very  important,  and  wrote 
plays  between  strikes;  and  none  of  the  movie  rights  to 
them  was  sold,  as  he  cared  nothing  for  commercialism, 
or  so  he  told  me ;  but  I  was  welcome  to  see  them  if  I  wanted 
to,  because  he  understood  I  was  Liberal.  He  himself  was 
a  philosophic  Anarchist,  and  was  free  all  day  to-morrow 
if  I  cared  to  have  him  read  those  plays  to  me.  And  just 
as  I  was  going  down  for  the  third  time  my  life  was  saved 
by  the  arrival  of  Lu  Wildhack,  which  was  not  a  Chinaman, 


32  West  Broadway 

but  a  girl  who  had  robbed  a  tortoise  of  his  eyeglasses,  and 
she  was  evidently  Mr.  Westman  's  Sweetie  and  awful  afraid 
somebody  would  fail  to  realize  that  they  were  not  mar- 
ried, and  was  maybe  a  little  disappointed  in  me  because  of 
I  not  being  more  shocked.  But  in  ten  years  on  Broadway, 
why,  you  see  a  lot  of  poor  things  in  the  same  fix,  and  I 
long  ago  realized  it  was  not  always  their  fault,  but  a  in- 
competent mother's  and  the  hard  time  they  have  to  get 
along  is  really  punishment  enough.  And  after  her  came 
Mr.  Westman 's  brother,  a  quiet  young  chap  who  just  sat 
and  said  nothing. 

Well,  our  invited  company  consisted  as  listed  above, 
information  drawn  from  sources  which  we  believe  to  be 
reliable,  meaning  our  own  eyes  and  ears.  But  the  table 
which  had  once  worked  in  a  boarding  house  could  hold  a 
lot  more  than  six,  and  did,  because  practically  the  entire 
intellectual  lower  world,  meaning  that  part  which  is  situ- 
ated south  of  Fourteenth  Street,  come  over  to  the  table 
and  sat  there  during  the  evening,  and  by  the  time  we  had 
got  to  what  I  took  to  be  filet  of  sole  leather  I  had  eight 
disinterested  parties  who  never  went  to  the  pictures  be- 
cause they  was  so  vulgar  and  so  hopelessly  bad  offer  me 
really  good  scenarios.  The  altruistic  spirit  of  that  Cave  of 
Culture  was  a  beautiful  thing,  and  I  '11  say  those  highbrows 
didn't  care  any  more  for  breaking  into  the  despised  pic- 
tures than  they  did  for  their  right  arm.  But  anyways,  I 
was  learning  a  whole  lot,  though  not  exactly  what  I  had 
expected  to,  and  at  any  rate  there  had  so  far  been  nothing 
for  Jim  to  kick  about  except  the  meal. 

But  after  we  had  eat  the  trouble  began.  One  of  the 
symptoms  of  Bohemianism  is  to  hang  around  the  table 
after  you  are  through  eating,  and  this  is  what  we  did, 
talk  being  a  inexpensive  form  of  entertainment,  and  our 
host  had  plenty  of  it.  And  what  is  further,  that  was  just 
what  I  had  come  for,  and  so  I  was  perfectly  agreeable — 


West  Broadway  33 

up  to  a  certain  point.  I  felt  all  set  for  a  heated  intellectual 
discussion  as  I  sat  there  amidst  the  smoke  screen  sent  up 
by  the  cigarettes  which  everybody  but  me  was  smoking  and 
watching  the  others  enjoying  some  boot  licker  that  one  of 
the  crowd  had  brought  and  refraining  myself,  not  because 
of  moral  reasons  but  on  account  of  thinking  more  of  my 
Art  than  I  do  of  my  stomach,  and  it 's  the  truth,  they  got 
more  to  do  with  each  other  than  a  person  would  suppose. 

Well,  anyways,  I  felt  about  fifty  per  cent  more  intel- 
lectual than  ever  before,  although  whether  it  was  because 
of  my  dinner  didn  't  set  very  well,  or  not,  I  can 't  be  sure ; 
and  so  I  thought,  now  I  will  start  what  I  came  for,  and 
so  I  says,  "Mr.  Westman,  don't  you  think  all  this  talk 
of  the  Soviet  spreading  over  the  world  is  more  or  less  the 
bunk?"  I  says. 

"Westman  opened  his  little  eyes  very  wide  at  that. 

"My  dear  lady,"  he  says,  "the  International  is  not  a 
theory  any  longer — it  is  a  fact!  Look  at  Russia!  Look 
at  Italy !  England  will  be  next  and  then  France,  and  by 
that  time  America  will  be  ready — if  she  has  not  already 
come  in!" 

He  says  this  with  such  a  sure  kind  of  manner  that  I 
couldn  't  come  back  at  him  the  way  I  wanted  to — quick  and 
snappy.  I  could  only  look  at  him  stupidly  while  my  mind 
searched  around  for  what  I  wanted  to  say  next. 

"But  why  should  anybody  in  America  want  to  revolt?" 
I  says,  and  everybody  at  the  table  stopped  to  listen.  West- 
man give  a  bitter  laugh. 

"Why?"  he  asks.    "You  ask  me  why?" 

"I  do!"  I  says  firmly.  "I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  not  to 
read  the  papers,  and  of  course  I  see  a  lot  of  pieces  where 
the  country  is  full  of  strikes — coal  strikes,  garment  strikes, 
even  milk  strikes — and  lockouts,  whatever  they  are.  And 
yet  we  certainly  got  a  rich  and  prosperous  country  where 
everybody  seems  to  have  plenty  of  money  to  spend.  Why 


34  West  Broadway 

would  we  want  a  revolution  here?  What  is  it  you — be- 
cause I  suppose  that's  what  you  was  in  jail  for — want  to 
change  ? ' ' 

"Now  look  here,  my  dear  young  lady!"  says  Mr.  West- 
man.  "That  is  a  big  order  for  a  single  evening.  But  I 
can  tell  you  a  few  things  that  you  are  going  to  see  changed. 
You  are  going  to  see  the  people — the  common  people — 
come  into  power,  first  of  all,  and  the  power  of  the  capi- 
talists taken  away  from  them." 

"But  most  of  the  capitalists  I  know  are  awful  common 
people,"  I  says,  and  this  got  a  laugh,  although  that  was 
not  what  I  had  intended.  "What  I  mean  is  that  they 
mostly  come  from  the  lower  East  Side  in  the  first  place, 
and  was  maybe  a  newsboy  or  some  such  thing  to  begin, 
with  poor  but  by  no  means  necessarily  honest  parents. 
But  their  willingness  to  work  and  save  and  use  their  brains 
have  got  them  where  they  are  to-day." 

"Social  justice  is  based  on  fairness  to  the  average  man, 
and  not  on  the  exceptional,  Miss  La  Tour,"  says  Westman. 

"But  how  are  you  going  to  stop  the  good  ones?"  I  says. 
"They'll  always  get  on  top." 

"It  may  be  necessary  to  kill  off  all  of  those  who  refuse 
to  put  their  services  at  the  disposal  of  the  proletariat," 
says  Westman,  his  face  getting  sort  of  ugly  and  purple. 
"I  am  convinced  that  direct  action  is  the  only  solution 
in  many  of  the  problems  of  social  readjustment." 

This  got  me  sore  and  a  little  scared. 

"But  do  you  think  you've  got  any  real  backing  in  this 
country  for  that  sort  of  thing?"  I  says,  real  quiet  on  the 
surface,  but  nearing  the  boiling  point  inside. 

"I've  got  practically  the  whole  country,"  says  West- 
man grimly.  "There's  an  immense  organization  in  exist- 
ence which  will  show  its  hand  at  the  proper  time.  It  has 
given  warnings  before  now,  and  when  it  declares  itself  the 


West  Broadway  35 

entire  country  will  arise  from  its  misery  and  follow  the 
new  leaders  to  freedom." 

There  was  a  short  pause  after  this,  and  I  for  the  first 
time  really  noticed  Westman  's  brother,  Tom,  who  had  been 
sitting  in  silence  all  evening.  What  caught  me  now  was 
the  anxious  way  he  was  watching  Karl.  The  kid's  eyes 
was  half  shut  and  two  lines  had  come  into  his  face — deep 
lines  of  worry — and  he  had  turned  a  sort  of  ashy  color 
like  he  was  sick.  He  didn't  say  nothing  at  all,  but  I 
couldn't  help  wondering  about  it. 

Then  Rosa  Gratz  spoke  up. 

"Miss  La  Tour,"  says  she,  "you  ought  to  be  in  a  posi- 
tion to  know  something  of  the  truth  about  the  condition 
of  the  people — the  vast  downtrodden  mass  of  the  people 
in  this  country  to-day — and  to  sympathize  with  them. 
You  are  of  the  people  yourself." 

"You  said  a  mouthful!"  I  replied.  "I  was  raised  on 
Avenue  A  and  in  the  dressing  rooms  of  circuses  and  cheap 
theaters  all  my  young  life,"  I  says.  "And  I  hated  it, 
and  made  up  my  mind  to  fight  my  way  out  of  it,"  I  says. 
"And  by  a  lot  of  hard  work  I've  done  so,"  I  says.  "But 
nobody  ever  tried  to  keep  me  down,"  I  says,  "nor  deprive 
me  of  a  living  or  a  fair  show.  I've  always  been  well  paid 
when  I  could  deliver  the  goods, ' '  I  says,  ' '  and  so  has  every- 
body else  who  has  done  the  same." 

"But  you  had  the  goods,  as  you  call  it,  to  deliver,  Miss 
La  Tour, ' '  Miss  Gratz  goes  on.  ' '  Suppose — pardon  my  be- 
ing personal — but  just  suppose  you  hadn't  been  so  pretty. 
Would  you  have  been  so  successful?" 

Well ;  that  was  a  mean  question,  and  pretty  near  a  knock- 
out, because  a  face  which  is  easy  to  look  at  on  the  screen  is 
certainly  the  one  which  gets  there,  only  that  ain't  all  there 
is  to  it.  But  it's  awful  hard  to  make  one  who  is  not 
familiar  with  a  studio  understand  that  pictures  is  real  work 


36  West  Broadway 

and  that  the  money  in  it  has  to  be  earned  the  same  as 
any  other  money. 

"About  the  East  Side  you  are  right,"  I  says.  "There 
are  plenty  of  horrors  in  it — almost  as  bad  as  what  I  've  read 
about  what  is  going  on  in  Petrograd  since  the  revolution 
took  place." 

"You  mean  what  you've  read  in  the  capitalist  press 
about  Petrograd,"  Mr.  Crabtree  chimed  in.  "You  don't 
know  the  truth — and  even  if  it  isn't  perfect,  the  result 
in  Russia  has  proved  sufficiently  interesting  to  spread 
through  the  workingmen's  organizations  all  over  the 
world — by  no  means  excepting  America." 

"But  if  the  people  here  are  really  as  discontented  as  you 
say,"  I  says,  "why  don't  they  take  more  interest  in  poli- 
tics! They  got  a  vote,  you  know.  I  personally  myself 
think  they  got  a  pretty  good  machine  with  which  to  ex- 
press theirself  right  now." 

Suddenly  Karl  Westman  got  excited.  He  got  on  his 
feet  and  hit  the  table  a  wallop.  His  brother,  with  his  face 
whiter  than  ever,  half  got  up,  too,  but  sank  back  again,  still 
silent. 

' '  Express  themselves — express  themselves ! ' '  Karl 
shouted.  "God  help  them — much  good  their  expressed 
wishes  do  them !  Look  at  the  miners,  at  the  longshoremen 
— look  at  all  the  industrial  slaves  of  this  country — and  then 
ask  me  why  they  don 't  express  themselves !  Politics  are  a 
rotten,  filthy  mess — democracy  a  rank  failure!  We  are 
through  with  them,  I  tell  you!  We  want  action — direct 
action — war  if  you  like — war  with  the  rich,  with  the  smug 
bourgeoisie  with  their  fat  little  savings  and  their  stupid 
content,  and  we'll  put  an  end  to  their  dull  tyranny  if  we 
have  to  blow  them  to  hell  to  do  it !" 

' '  Karl ! ' '  says  young  Westman  suddenly,  and  his  voice 
was  like  a  whiplash.  "Sit  down  and  shut  up!" 

And  abruptly  Mr.  Westman  sat  down.    Everybody  was 


West  Broadway  37 

talking  at  once,  then,  Miss  Gratz  about  the  West  Virginia 
miners,  Mr.  Crabtree  shouting  something  about  the  ex- 
pressmen's strike,  and  a  perfectly  strange  female  who  had 
got  in  with  our  bunch  someways  or  another  had  Jim  col- 
lared and  he  couldn't  strike  her,  no  matter  what  she  was 
saying,  but  looked  as  if  he  wished  she  was  a  man.  I  turned 
to  young  Westman,  who  had  moved  over  into  the  seat  next 
to  me,  while  his  brother  whispered  to  the  Wildhack  lady. 

"Say,  brother,"  I  says  to  him,  more  to  find  out  could 
he  talk  than  anything — "say,  bo,"  I  says,  "are  you  with 
this  bunch  on  this  Great  American  Revolution  thing?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  says  slowly.  "Sometimes  when  I 
see  the  poverty  of  the  slums  and  then  suddenly  the  wealth 
on  the  Avenue  I'm  with  the  revolution  heart  and  soul. 
When  I  see  the  misuse  of  power  by  the  officials  of  the 
great  cities,  the  diversion  of  the  public  funds,  the  neglect 
of  the  public 's  interests,  yes,  I  am  for  it !  When  I  hear 
my  brother  Karl  there  talk,  with  his  conviction,  his  fire, 
and  realize  that  he  has  given  his  whole  life  to  this  work 
— even  gone  to  prison  for  the  sake  of  his  convictions — 
then  I  believe  in  the  revolution.  And  his  following  is  a 
powerful  thing." 

"Just  what  is  his  following?"  I  says. 

"Any  number  of  union  leaders,"  said  Tom  Westman. 
' '  Karl  can  swing  their  men  any  way  he  wants  to,  and  they 
know  it." 

"How  can  he  get  the  time,"  I  says,  "from  his  work?" 

"It  is  his  work!"  says  Tom  in  some  surprise.  "The 
Internationalists  support  him,  you  know." 

"I  didn't  know,"  I  says  shortly.  "Do  you  believe  in 
this  direct  action  stuff,  too?" 

Young  Westman  give  a  crooked  little  smile  at  that. 

' '  I  saw  enough  of  the  results  of  direct  action  in  the  Red 
Cross  service  for  two  years,"  he  says,  "to  think  much  of 
unnecessary  killing.  But  it's  true  I've  come  back  to  find 


38  West  Broadway 

a  lot  of  things  I  don't  like — cheap  skates  that  made  a  pile 
while  the  boys  was  fighting,  and  all  that.  Yes,  sometimes 
I  think  a  revolution — a  clean  sweep — is  the  only  way. ' ' 

"I  don't!"  I  says  hotly.  "There  must  be  some  other 
answer.  There's  a  lot  about  our  Government  I  don't  like 
myself,  especially  the  income  tax,  and  I  don't  care  for  this 
Blue  Sunday  idea.  Sunday  is  the  only  day  for  we  actresses 
to  get  a  little  pleasure.  But  I'm  not  going  to  throw  any 
bombs  about  it." 

Young  Westman  give  a  jump  at  that. 

"Don't !"  he  says,  laughing  a  little  in  not  quite  a  healthy 
way.  "I  don't  like  that  sort  of  talk  either.  But  if 
the  country  wants  a  revolution  it  will  have  it,  you  can 
depend  on  that!" 

"If  this  whole  United  States  of  America  is  as  sick  as 
you  people  make  out,"  I  says,  "I  ought  to  know  the  facts 
and  help  call  in  the  doctor.  I  've  heard  a  lot  of  wise  cracks 
and  long  words  here  to-night,  and  it's  got  me  worried. 
You  people  down  here  can  write  and  talk  a  lot  better  than 
most  of  us,  and  educated  people  ought  to  know  what  they 
are  talking  about." 

Karl  Westman  heard  this  and  turned  around  to  me 
again. 

"We  do  know  what  we  are  talking  about,  Miss  La  Tour," 
he  says  awful  solemn  and  impressive.  "Soon — very  soon 
you  will  see  action.  Remember  what  I  say,  when  you 
read  of  it!  The  poverty  and  oppression  in  this  country 
are  no  idle  theories  but  a  grim  reality,  and  before  long 
you  will  see  a  concrete  demonstration  of  our  impatience 
with  it." 

Well,  these  words  give  me  an  awful  sickly  feeling,  but 
before  they  had  time  to  sink  in  we  got  a  concrete  example 
of  direct  action  right  then  and  there  in  the  Mocking 
Turtle  Cafe,  and  Jim  did  the  directing,  but  his  fist  did  the 
action.  He  had  been  put  at  the  far  end  of  the  long  table, 


West  Broadway  39 

but  I  had  for  some  time  realized  that  all  the  argument 
had  not  been  cooped  up  at  my  end,  and  Jim's  voice  had 
got  into  it  stronger  and  stronger,  and  now  he  landed  with 
his  right  on  Mr.  Crabtree's  jaw,  but  the  jaw  not  being 
made  for  anything  but  talk  and  to  hold  up  a  beard,  he 
went  backwards  over  the  table. 

Well,  I  don't  know  just  how  to  tell  what  happened  then, 
but  for  a  few  minutes  it  was  a  riot,  only  quite  a  little  of 
the  company  left  in  a  hurry  without  saying  good  night  or 
anything,  and  finally  when  Jim  was  pulled  off  what  was 
left  of  Mr.  Crabtree,  why,  we  said  good  night,  or  at  least 
I  remembered  to,  and  that  we  would  like  to  pay  for  the 
chairs  that  was  broke,  and  any  china,  and  then  we  some- 
how got  out  to  the  limousine  and  into  it,  and  I  turned  on 
my  husband  and  give  him  what  Mr.  Crabtree  had  been 
unable  to — a  good  licking — only  I,  being  a  lady,  did  it 
with  words. 

"The  idea!"  I  says.  "Such  a  low-life  performance! 
Can't  a  person  have  a  little  intellectual  conversation  on 
the  questions  of  the  day  without  pulling  any  rough  stuff? 
Suppose  we  don 't  agree  with  them.  We  ain  't  in  their  revo- 
lution yet — time  enough  to  lick  the  pants  off  'em  when 
they  try  to  start  it,"  I  says. 

"Revolution?"  says  Jim.  "I  didn't  hear  anything 
about  any  revolution!  I  hit  him  because  he  says  motion- 
picture  actors  was  cooties." 


m 

WHAT?"  says  I.  "He  says  actors  was  cooties?" 
"Well,  he  says  they  belonged  to  the  parasitic 
class,"  says  Jim,  "and  that  highbrow  language  didn't  get 
by  me — and  me  having  signed  a  contract  this  very  day 
to  go  to  the  coast  and  make  a  serial  with  more  he-man 
work  in  it  than  he  ever  did  in  his  whole  entire  life ! ' ' 

Wouldn't  that  jolt  you?  I'll  say  so!  Why,  I  just  sat 
there  with  the  wind  taken  out  of  me,  and  for  a  moment  I 
was  wordless,  though  a  wife.  But  not  thoughtless,  I'll 
tell  the  world!  Because  while  I  sat  there  like  a  boob  a 
real  idea  was  coming  to  me — a  big  idea  that  gave  me  a 
wide-open  feeling  like  clean  air  was  blowing  through  my 
brains  and  made  my  heart  leap  and  handed  me  the  first 
real  emotional  excitement  I  had  had  since  the  baby  come. 
All  of  a  sudden  them  books  I  had  bought  and  those  high- 
brows I'd  been  out  with  seemed  stuffy  and  smelly  and 
kind  of  unreal.  Maybe  they  had  told  the  truth,  but  any 
one  person  can  only  tell  a  little  part  of  the  truth  because 
the  truth  has  many  sides  to  it ;  and  I  felt  in  my  heart  that 
I  knew  something  that  those  highbrows  didn't,  and  that  I 
would  and  could  tell  my  side.  Tell  it  to  the  people !  All 
the  people — all  the  way  across  the  country !  If  those  darn 
Reds  had  a  right  to  go  out  and  tell  the  world  one  thing,  I 
had  as  good  a  right  to  tell  them  different,  and  I  would 
do  it!  I  would  tell  my  side  to  my  suffering,  downtrodden 
country;  tell  'em  that  all  they  needed  to  do  to  be  pros- 
perous and  happy  was  to  work — I  would  say  that  to  them 
— I,  the  living  example  of  that  it  can  be  done ! 

Did  the  big  thought  lift  me  up  like  religion?  I'll  say 
40 


West  Broadway  41 

so!  I  felt  pure  and  washed,  sort  of,  and  it  certainly  was 
a  pleasant  feeling.  But  I  didn't  try  to  explain  it  to  Jim. 
There  is  no  use  trying  to  explain  your  emotions  to  your 
husband.  I  found  that  out  long  ago.  So  all  I  says  out 
loud  was,  "Jim,"  I  says,  "forget  them  literary  nitwits.  I 
got  a  wonderful  plan.  Goldringer  wants  me  to  go  out  to 
the  coast  too.  I  was  going  to  talk  to  you  about  it  to-night. 
What  do  you  say  if  we  take  the  old  bus  and  drive  the  whole 
way?" 

Jim  turned  to  me  with  a  look  like  I  ain't  seen  on  his 
face  since  I  said  "Yes." 

"Kid,"  said  he  just  too  sweetly  for  words — "kid,  you 
got  brains  all  over  your  body ! ' ' 

The  next  morning  I  woke  up  early,  about  ten  o'clock, 
with  the  feeling  that  something  had  happened  and  some- 
thing else  was  going  to,  only  I  didn  't  know  what,  but  only 
a  sort  of  flutter  in  my  middle.  Then  all  at  once  I  remem- 
bered I  was  going  to  drive  to  California ! 

And  when  Musette,  my  personal  maid,  come  in  with  a 
light  breakfast  of  only  coffee  and  serial  and  eggs  Benedic- 
tine, which  means  married  eggs — well,  anyway,  only  that 
and  a  little  French  toast  and  jam — why,  I  could  hardly 
made  a  dent  in  it  because  of  the  excitement  I  was  in  over 
my  plan. 

There  was  also  some  letters  on  the  tray,  and  the  morning 
papers,  and  when  I  had  found  that  Jim  was  already  gone 
out  on  a  early  location  on  Brooklyn  Bridge  and  ma  and  the 
nurse  and  baby  was  also  on  location  somewheres  in  the  mar- 
keting district,  I  though,  well,  here's  my  chance  for  a 
little  peace  and  privacy  and  I  can  think  out  a  few  things 
without  some  loving  member  of  my  family  nagging  me  to 
know  what  am  I  thinking  about,  or  where  will  they  send 
the  laundry  this  week,  or  please  let  me  have  a  dollar  forty- 
five  for  the  boy  from  the  drug  store  or  some  such  intrusion 
on  a  married  artist's  privacy. 


42  West  Broadway 

Well,  anyways,  when  I  had  pecked  at  my  food  until  it 
was  all  gone  and  meanwhile  thought  over  last  night  and  the 
sort  of  half-real,  half  "Welsh-rarebit-dream  people  we  had 
been  with,  which  it's  the  truth;  they  kind  of  seemed  to 
belong  to  a  race  of  their  own,  not  pure  anything — do  you 
get  what  I  mean? — but  about  one-third  white,  one-third 
Bed  and  one-third  tortoise-shell,  and  yet  were  the  ones  in 
this  country  who  were  doing  all  the  talking  and  getting  no 
end  of  publicity  for  it — well,  the  more  I  thought  of  them 
the  madder  I  got,  and  the  more  I  was  determined  I  would 
go  and  do  a  little  shouting  on  my  own.  Here  these  parrots 
kept  up  their  yell  of  Red,  Bed,  Bed,  and  nobody  answered 
them  back !  But  I  would !  Just  how  I  didn't  know  as  yet, 
but  I  would  tell  the  hicks  throughout  this  fairly  broad  land 
something  about  Americanism. 

And  finally  I  had  myself  so  worked  up  I  was  mentally 
running  around  in  circles.  So  I  says  to  myself,  "Here, 
Mary  Gilligan  Smith  La  Tour,  keep  your  boudoir  cap  on! 
Maybe  the  members  of  this  Intelligentzia  Club  are  all 
right.  Maybe  they  got  the  right  dope  about  the  Great 
American  Bevolution  being  a  sure  thing.  But  if  they  are 
there  is  no  use  you  going  crazy  too  I  Get  your  bean  clear 
and  then  get  a  little  action!" 

"All  right!"  I  answered  myself.  "Then  I'll  just  calm 
down,  read  my  mail  and  the  papers  and  then  get  busy 
with  my  preparations." 

So  I  got  out  of  bed  and  into  a  negligee  and  took  my 
literature  into  my  boudoir,  which  I  had  recently  done  over 
in  period  furniture  but  do  not  like  it  much.  I  don't  know 
why  they  call  it  period  furniture  unless  because  somebody 
put  a  stop  to  it  a  long  time  ago  which  makes  it  hard  to  get 
and  expensive.  Well,  anyway,  I've  got  some  of  it  now 
because  all  cultured  people  do,  and  I  settled  myself  in 
a  Tudor  armchair  which  was  very  valuable — it  was  the 
original  model  for  the  Electric  chair — but  fortunately 


West  Broadway  43 

had  some  La  Tour  lingerie  cushions  in  it,  and  then  I  com- 
menced my  reading. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  mails  to  take  my  mind  off  the 
Eevolution,  however — only  a  bill  from  Maison  Rosabelle 
for  a  couple  of  negligees  but  with  nothing  negligee  about 
the  price,  the  notice  of  my  income-tax  installment  and  a 
form  letter  asking  me  to  contribute  to  the  defense  fund 
of  a  couple  of  Boston  wops  who  it  seemed  hadn't  done  any- 
thing in  the  world  but  kill  a  special  officer  and  a  paymas- 
ter and  get  away  with  eighteen  thousand  dollars  in  an  auto- 
mobile. And  now,  the  letter  went  on  to  say,  the  corrupt 
police  had  the  nerve  to  capture  these  poor  friends  of  the 
common  people  and  had  them  in  the  cooler,  and  as  nobody 
had  seen  them  do  the  killing  would  I  please  send  a  few 
berries  at  once  to  prevent  this  outrage  upon  the  personal 
liberty  of  our  citizens,  because  they  were  undoubtedly 
being  railroaded  by  the  cruel  capitalists  who  couldn't  see 
the  justice  in  this  cute  little  performance. 

Well,  of  course,  I  don 't  see  how  this  got  by  the  using-the- 
mails-to-obtain-money-under-at-least-doubtf  ul-pre  tenses 
law.  But  it  did  back  up  what  Westman  had  said 
about  the  organization  of  radicals.  It  was  a  printed  letter, 
and  a  printed  folder  went  with  it — a  expensive  sort  of 
advertising,  and  I  wish  Al  Goldringer  would  do  as  much  in 
his  motion-picture  business.  Only  a  rich  organization 
could  put  stuff  like  that  out.  And  it  was  not  the  first  letter 
of  the  kind  I  had  received,  as  I  then  also  realized.  I  tore 
it  up  in  little  pieces  and  put  a  period  to  that  in  the  period 
wastebasket  and  turned  to  the  newspapers. 

Now  you  can't  hardly  call  the  regular  New  York  news- 
papers in  good  standing  radical.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Mr.  Westman  had  called  them  something  which  no  lady 
would  repeat,  but  which  meant  that  they  were  distinctly 
on  the  other  side  from  him.  And  yet  out  of  eight  headlines 
across  the  front  page  here  is  what  I  read: 


44  West  Broadway 

1.  Coal  Strikers  Refuse  to  Arbitrate. 

2.  Dockmen  Declare  War  to  Finish. 

3.  Thirty-four  Robberies,  Three  Murders,  Ten  Hold- 

ups, Two  Shootings  City  Record  Last  Week. 

4.  Riots  in  Belfast,  Ten  Killed. 

5.  Mrs.  MacSwiney  Greeted  With  Cheers. 

And  if  that  isn't  giving  all  the  news  space  to  the  Reds, 
what  is?  I  went  wild  when  I  read  them,  and  commenced 
searching  through  the  inside  pages  for  something  pleasant, 
and  way  down  under  the  theatrical  ads  I  found  a  little 
piece  one-tenth  of  a  column  long  which  says,  "Biggest 
Crops  Since  1905  Promised  for  this  Year." 

Can  you  beat  that?  I  lay  back  as  far  as  I  could  in 
the  torture  chair,  fairly  sick  with  the  condition  of 
my  country.  This  was  serious.  If  all  that  stuff  was  so 
much  more  important  than  the  good  news,  we  as  a  nation 
was  in  a  bad  way,  that  was  clear  to  any  fool.  I  could  read 
the  evidence,  plain  as  the  print  it  was  in,  but  somehow  the 
inside  of  me — my  heart  if  not  my  mind — says  to  me  there 
was  a  catch  some  place.  It  couldn't  be  as  bad  as  it 
seemed. 

Yet  day  after  day  the  papers  was  printing  that  sort  of 
stuff. 

If  it  was  true  every  decent  American  ought  to  act  and 
act  quick  before  it  was  too  late.  But  it  couldn't  be  too 
late.  I  wouldn't  leave  it  be.  A  wave  of  excitement  swept 
over  me,  but  I  didn't  let  it  go  at  that.  There's  no  sense 
in  having  a  strong  feeling  unless  you  put  it  to  work. 
Emotion  is  not  a  end  in  itself,  and  the  way  to  get  action 
out  of  an  emotion  is  to  pledge  yourself  so 's  you  can 't  back 
out  when  you  cool  down.  So  I  threw  away  my  conserva- 
tive newspaper  and  grabbed  hold  of  the  telephone.  And 
after  only  the  delay  a  person  would  expect  I  had  Al  on 
the  wire. 

"Hello,  All"  I  says. 


West  Broadway  45 

"That  you  Mary?"  says  Al.  "How's  the  world  treat- 
ing you?" 

"It  ain't  treating  me,"  I  says.  "I  have  to  buy  my 
own,"  I  says.  "Which  at  the  present  prices,  Al,  means 
I'm  going  to  work,"  I  says. 

"That  picture  is  going  to  be  made  on  the  coast,"  says 
Al. 

"I  admit  it,"  I  says.  "But  I'm  going  to  drive  out  in 
the  Colby-Droit." 

"What?"  says  Al.  "Driving?  Can't  you  see  enough 
from  a  train  that  I  got  to  pay  expenses  on  a  car?  Say,  if 
I  was  to  offer  you  the  Singer  Building  you  would  want  me 
to  throw  in  the  Metropolitan  Tower!" 

"Never  mind  expenses!"  I  says.  "I'll  be  reasonable 
on  that." 

"But  it  will  take  such  a  time!"  says  Al.  "I  got  a  wire 
from  Rosin  this  morning  saying  they  will  have  space  in 
three  weeks  for  a  big  feature." 

"Tell  him  one  month  from  next  Tuesday,"  I  says,  "and 
shoot  the  contract  around  for  me  to  make  my  mark  on." 

"Well,  have  it  your  own  way,"  says  Al  as  if  he  was 
giving  me  something  new.  "Anyways,  that  auto  trip  will 
be  good  publicity." 

"Not  on  your  life!"  I  says.  "I'm  going  on  business  of 
my  own  as  Mrs.  James  Smith,"  I  says,  "and  I  don't  want 
the  country  all  jazzed  up  to  meet  me.  I  want  to  catch 
it  as  it  really  is,  with  its  kimono  on  and  its  hair  in  curlers. ' ' 

Well,  right  away  we  had  a  fight  on  that,  but  I  won,  be- 
cause the  telephone  operator  give  me  the  last  word,  and 
naturally  I  didn't  try  to  ring  him  back. 

Instead  I  got  up  and  dressed,  because  I  had  left  myself 
under  a  week  to  get  ready,  and  realized  that  it's  the 
woman  has  always  to  get  things  done  before  any  trip 
or  they  are  not,  and  that  Jim  would  be  busy  up  to  the  last 


46  West  Broadway 

minute,  but  was  fortunately  only  working  on  some  retakes 
now,  his  serial  having  finished  the  week  before. 

Well,  the  first  thing  I  done  was  break  the  news  to  ma 
that  she  would  have  to  take  care  of  the  baby  and  bring  him 
and  the  nurse  on  by  train,  because  even  then  I  realized 
a  open  car  and  a  trip  like  that  wouldn  't  do  him  any  good, 
with  no  milk  on  the  desert  and  all.  And  instead  of  raising 
a  kick,  a  fearful  look  of  cunning  come  into  ma's  face  ex- 
actly like  the  heavy  in  a  melo  when  he  sees  that  at  last  he 
can  have  his  will,  and  I  could  fairly  see  her  feeding  that 
young  one  sausage  to  keep  him  quiet,  and  picking  him  up 
when  he  yelled  and  rocking  him  to  sleep  and  all  those 
good  old-fashioned  methods,  which  my  generation  grew  up 
in  spite  of.  But  then  on  the  other  hand  I  knew  Miss 
Barker,  the  nurse,  wouldn't  leave  her  do  it,  because  she 
always  prevented  me,  and  I  had  first  claim  on  him. 

Of  course,  I  hated  to  leave  my  baby,  and  it  was  the  only 
real  drawback  to  the  trip.  But  it  was  like  the  girls 
making  me  take  my  wedding  ring  off  right  after  I  was 
married.  They  said  it  was  better,  because  in  case  I  ever 
had  to  later  I  wouldn't  feel  so  bad  about  doing  it.  And 
a  professional  woman  who  is  a  mother  has  to  do  the  same 
with  her  child;  and  I  might  have  to  go  to  Cuba  on  a 
location  or  Mexico  or  anywheres,  so  why  not  get  the  agony 
over  at  the  start?  And  aside  from  that  the  prospect  of 
having  no  family  but  Jim  for  a  while  was  a  kind  of  a  relief. 
A  child  and  your  mother  is  something  no  woman  would  be 
without,  but  to  be  without  them  for  a  week  or  two  is  some- 
times just  as  well,  and  after  all  I  was  going  primarily  for 
my  country 's  sake,  and  I  was  sort  of  sorry  I  had  only  one 
family  to  give  to  it.  There  is  a  lot  of  difference  between 
having  the  house  quiet  and  making  a  lot  of  noise  yourself, 
if  you  get  me. 

Well,  anyways,  I  left  ma  gloating  over  her  plans,  and 
taking  the  bunch  of  books  I  had  bought  only  the  day 


West  Broadway  47 

before,  but  which  seemed  like  years  ago,  I  went  back  to 
the  store  where  I  had  bought  them  as  a  good  beginning. 
The  same  bright  baby  that  I  had  bought  them  of  was  there, 
and  he  seemed  real  surprised  to  see  me. 

"Good  morning,"  he  says.  "My,  but  you  are  a  fast 
reader!  What  would  you  like  to-day?" 

"I'd  like  to  exchange  this  junk  for  a  copy  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  a  pocket  dictionary  and  a  English  grammar,"  I 
says.  "I  appreciate  your  helpful  suggestions,  but  I  guess 
I'd  better  get  educated  in  my  own  way." 

"By  Jove,  I  don't  know  but  you  are  right!"  says  Stu- 
dent Willie.  "How  about  Westman  and  Arise  America? 
Are  you  going  to  make  the  picture?" 

"I  am!"  I  says.  "But  not  out  of  his  book.  Thank 
God  he  couldn't  copyright  that  title!" 

Well,  the  bird  laughed  at  that,  and  exchanged  the  books 
like  I  wanted  him  to,  and  as  it  had  run  to  quite  some 
money  the  day  before,  I  got  a  copy  of  the  play  that  give 
me  real  pleasure  to  handle — something  I  never  expected 
to  get  from  a  book. 

"By  the  way,"  says  the  book  hustler  as  he  give  me  my 
new  package — "by  the  way,  I  heard  a  very  curious  thing 
about  Westman  this  morning.  It  seems  he's  disappeared. 
He  had  a  definite  engagement  late  last  night  with  the  chap 
that  told  me — Crabtree — who  was  in  this  morning  with  a 
black  eye.  Seems  he  went  to  keep  the  date,  and  Westman 's 
room  had  been  stripped  clean.  Did  you  dine  with  him?" 

"Yes,  we  did,"  I  says.  "I  bet  the  bulls  are  after  him. 
We  left  early,  thank  heavens!" 

"Well,  it's  an  odd  story,"  says  the  young  fellow.  "But 
perhaps  there's  nothing  in  it." 

"Probably  not,"  I  says,  paying  really  very  little  atten- 
tion, because  I  was  interested  in  my  own  plans.  ' '  Can  you 
tell  me  where  to  get  a  good  automobile  road  map?" 


48  West  Broadway 

"Why,  at  the  A. A. A.,  I  guess,"  says  he.  "Going 
far?" 

"Just  to  California,"  I  says.  And  then  I  thanked  him 
and  walked  out,  little  dreaming  that  I  had  passed  up  st 
piece  of  information  that  was  of  the  greatest  importance. 


IV 

nnHE  only  thing  I  thought  of  as  I  walked  out  onto  the 
JL  Avenue  was  that  I  was  going  to  take  a  tour  which 
practically  nobody  had  ever  done,  and  that  it  must  show 
on  me.  I  had  an  idea  that  everybody  who  looked  at  me 
must  know  where  I  was  going  and  what  perils  and  adven- 
tures I  was  about  to  face.  I  felt  like  a  mixture  of  Sir 
Guy  the  Crusader  and  Christopher  Columbus,  and  some- 
how, while  I  didn't  really  expect  perfect  strangers  to 
point  at  me  and  say  "There  is  a  woman  who  is  motoring 
to  California  shortly,"  I  certainly  did  feel  apart  from  the 
common  herd  which  hadn't  been  any  further  than  from 
the  Battery  to  Harlem.  I  felt  important  and  expected  to 
be  treated  accordingly,  and  so  I  went  into  the  A.  A.  A. 
all  prepared  to  hand  them  a  big  surprise.  I  guess  I  must 
of  forgot  I  was  in  New  York.  Naturally  I  went  first  to 
the  plush  offices  on  the  Avenue,  and  they  was  nearly  as 
handsome  as  Goldringer's  downtown  place,  and  almost  as 
full  of  eager  seekers,  only  of  course  they  were  not  actors 
but  autoists. 

Well,  after  I  had  sat  there  for  maybe  twenty  minutes  of 
my  valuable  time,  nursing  Shakspere  and  the  dictionary 
while  six  people  ahead  of  me  was  told  no,  the  road  from 
New  York  to  Philadelphia  hadn't  been  mended  yet,  and 
you  better  take  a  train,  a  nice  but  exhausted  young  fellow 
lifted  his  eyebrows  at  me  and  I  sprung  my  bomb — only  the 
moment  after  I  done  so  I  saw  it  was  a  dud. 

"I'm  driving  to  California  next  week,"  I  says  impres- 
sively, "and  I  think  I  better  get  some  information  from 
you  about  roads  and  hotels." 
49 


50  West  Broadway 

"Which  way  are  you  going?"  says  the  young  man  like 
•water  off  a  duck's  back. 

"Is  there  more  than  one  way?"  I  says,  flat  as  a  cake  on 
a  cold  griddle.  "I  want  the  best  paved  way." 

The  young  man  give  a  mysterious  smile  at  that,  which 
I  didn't  then  understand.  And  a  good  thing  we  don't 
always  understand  what  is  ahead  of  us  or  we'd  never  go 
any  place — ain't  it  the  truth? 

"At  this  time  of  year  I  would  go  by  the  southern  route," 
he  says.  ' '  Take  the  Santa  Fe  trail.  There  might  be  some 
snow  on  the  Lincoln  Highway  by  the  time  you'll  strike 
the  high  places,  and  you'd  be  playing  safe  by  going  the 
southern  way.  If  we  can  help  you  in  any  way,  be  sure 
to  let  us  know." 

"Is  it  much  of  a  trip?"  I  says  casually.  "Dangerous, 
and  all?" 

"Not  a  bit,  not  a  bit !  Hundreds  of  people  making  it  all 
the  time!"  says  he.  "Gas  stations  every  seventy-five 
miles — nothing  to  it!" 

"Thank  you,"  I  says,  unconvinced.  "Then  there's 
nothing  special  I  ought  to  know.  Will  we  have  to  camp?" 

"Not  unless  you  want  to,"  he  says. 

"I  don't,"  I  says  hastily.  "I'm  in  the  theatrical  line, 
and  hotels  have  nothing  to  teach  me  in  the  way  of  horrors. ' ' 

"Well  then,  there's  really  nothing  especial  to  tell  you," 
says  the  feller.  "You'll  need  a  tow  rope.  Better  take 
along  an  ax  and  a  desert  water  bag,  of  course;  and  you 
will  probably  have  to  adjust  the  carburetor  in  high  alti- 
tudes; and  take  a  collapsible  bucket  to  fill  the  radiator — 
fill  every  chance  you  get,  whether  you  need  it  or  not." 

"Hadn't  I  better  take  some  pemmican  and  a  couple  of 
guns?"  I  says,  kidding  him  back.  But  he  never  smiled. 

"Might  be  a  good  idea,"  he  says  seriously.  And  then 
he  turned  to  a  man  who  was  tugging  at  his  elbow  im- 
patiently. "Yes,  sir,"  he  says  to  the  man,  "splendid 


West  Broadway  51 

road  all  the  way  to  Canada,  but  it's  dry  now,  you  know." 

Well  I  got  up  and  got  out  at  that  and  went  on  uptown, 
wondering  all  the  way  just  how  much  the  fellow  was 
kidding.  I  don't  mean  about  dry  Canada;  I  mean  about 
what  I  ought  to  take.  Of  course  I  expected  to  take  along 
a  few  conveniences,  but  not  to  have  to  break  the  wilder- 
ness. However,  the  biggest  shock  was  to  have  my  news 
taken  so  calmly. 

The  young  lady  at  the  stationers  where  I  went  to  buy 
a  map  didn't  die  of  excitement  at  my  trip  either.  She 
and  a  blonde  was  deep  in  their  own  affairs  when  I  come  in, 
my  self-importance  somewhat  restored  by  then,  and  she 
was  saying  something  about  "and  I  says  she  knew  all 
along  he  was  married,  and  all  the  sympathy  I  got  for  her 
could  be  parked  in  a  eye  dropper, ' '  and  the  other  one  says, 
"Well,  you  ought  never  to  trust  a  man  till  you  get  it  on 
paper,"  and  then  I  come  in. 

"I'm  going  to  California,"  I  says,  "and  I'd  like  a  road 
map,"  I  says. 

But  the  first  girl,  far  from  realizing  the  strangeness  of 
my  remark,  went  on  talking,  but  reached  languidly  over 
with  her  right  hand  without  even  looking  and  drew  one 
from  a  pile — "So,  I  says,  'Are  you  sure  he  is  married  and 
it  ain't  just  an  alibi?'  I  says.  Two  dollars,  please" — only 
this  was  to  me. 

Well,  I  gave  her  the  two  and  took  the  map,  and  went 
out  wondering  when  she  had  got  back  from  her  seventh 
transcontinental  trip. 

And,  believe  me,  this  was  some  map !  During  lunch, 
which  I  had  by  myself,  I  gave  it  the  double  0 ;  and,  as  the 
poet  says,  a  world  of  romance  commenced  to  spread  before 
me,  and  at  the  same  time  a  slight  tendency  to  coldness  of 
the  feet;  but  I  put  that  right  out  of  my  head  in  favor  of 
the  excitement  and  adventure  I  saw  there  before  me  in  red 
and  blue  lines.  I'll  tell  the  world  this  was  the  first  map 


52  West  Broadway 

I  ever  took  any  real  interest  in  or  cared  where  was  the 
boundary  line  of  anything,  or  how  many  miles  there  was 
in  it,  or  any  of  those  things  which  going  to  school  had  given 
me  a  natural  hatred  of.  But,  believe  me,  a  map  of  some 
place  you  are  going  to  is  something  different  yet  again 
from  a  map  you  got  to  study  in  school  for  no  apparent 
reason. 

As  I  commenced  reading  the  names  on  it  I  got  more  and 
more  excited.  There  was  St.  Louis,  Kansas  City,  Dayton, 
where  the  aeroplanes  come  from,  the  Mississippi  River, 
where  the  coon  songs  come  from,  and  the  Rocky  Mountains ! 
Why,  we  would  have  to  go  over  'em!  And  the  Grand 
Canyon!  They  began  to  be  places  instead  of  names. 
When  I  showed  the  map  to  Jim  that  night  we  rolled  these 
names  about  in  our  mouth  like  gum  or  something  and 
chewed  on  them.  But  Jim  didn't  appreciate  the  map  the 
way  he  ought  to  of.  That  was  because  I  had  bought  it. 

"Are  you  sure  this  is  the  right  one?"  he  says,  turning 
it  over  and  examining  it  to  try  and  find  something  wrong. 

"It's  official,"  I  says. 

"Well,  it's  not  so  bad,"  he  had  to  admit  at  last.  "But 
I  think  we  ought  to  take  the  Lincoln  Highway,  at  that. 
It's  the  best  known." 

"And  miss  the  Canyon?"  I  says  indignantly.  "Not 
much!  And,  anyways,  it's  full  of  snow,  or  will  be." 

' '  In  this  heat  ? ' '  says  Jim.    ' '  Nonsense ! '  * 

Then  the  bell  rung  and  we  went  at  it  for  three  rounds, 
which  ended  by  compromising  on  the  Santa  Fe,  Jim  having 
been  out  by  train  that  way,  and  I  suppose  giving  in  because 
he  would  be  able  to  tell  me  what  was  coming  next  before 
we  got  to  it,  and  no  husband  could  be  expected  to  resist 
that  chance.  But  the  way  he  handled  that  map  drove 
me  nearly  wild.  Before  the  end  of  the  session  you  would  of 
thought  he  had  invented  it  and  I  had  never  seen  it  before. 

"We'll  go  from  New  York  to  Pittsburgh,"  he  says. 


West  Broadway  53 

"And  then  do  we  make  Chicago?  Let's  see — no,  too  far 
north.  That's  the  Lincoln.  Columbus,  Ohio,  would  be 
better." 

' ' Let 's  go  by  Philly  and  Baltimore, ' '  I  says.  ' '  I  played 
Pittsburgh  once,  and  I  want  to  see  some  place  I  ain't 
been." 

"Well,  Baltimore,  then.  We  may  as  well  go  through 
as  many  states  as  possible,"  he  agreed. 

Then  he  commenced  recognizing  the  names  of  some  of 
the  stations  he  had  stopped  at;  and,  like  a  man,  that  was 
where  he  wanted  to  go — some  place  he  had  been !  But  as 
it  was  all  new  to  me,  I  should  worry ! 

"There's  a  wonderful  hotel  at  Albuquerque — right  on 
the  desert — the  best  thing  in  the  town,"  he  says.  "And 
where  was  it  I  seen  the  Indians — was  it  Flagstaff?  And 
wait  until  you  see  the  jack  rabbits  in  Kansas,  and  the 
grades  we  have  to  take  in — in — I  think  it  was  Illinois." 

Of  course  I  couldn't  check  him  up  then.  I  believed 
every  word  he  said  the  way  you  have  to  if  you  ain't  been 
a  place  yourself.  But  I  got  a  good  memory,  and  Jim 
ought  to  of  known  better  than  to  tempt  it. 

Well,  by  about  nine-thirty  we  had  a  route  to  Los  Angeles 
all  doped  out,  via  Kansas  City,  Las  Vegas  and  San  Ber- 
nardino. And  when  this  was  all  settled  we  discovered  the 
Yellowstone  way  up  north,  and  started  in  all  over  again 
on  a  different  line. 

' '  We  don 't  want  to  miss  that ! ' '  says  Jim,  and  I  agreed 
with  him. 

So  by  ten-fifteen  we  had  the  northern  route  all  arranged 
for — and  then  we  remembered  the  snow,  which  was  hard 
to  keep  in  mind  at  seventy  with  the  windows  open. 

"I  don't  know  but  that  the  old  Spanish  trail  would  be 
better  than  either  of  them,"  says  Jim.  "Lookit,  kid,  San 
Antonio  is  on  it,  and  El  Paso.  We  could  slip  into  Mexhic-co 
and  find  out  what  a  highball  looks  like,  eh!  Of  course  it's 


54  West  Broadway 

a  little  longer,  but  what's  a  few  hundred  miles  out  of  three 
thousand?" 

"We'd  have  to  take  the  boat  to  Jacksonville  to  do  it," 
I  says.  "But  that  would  be  sort  of  good  fun." 

Well,  at  that  we  was  off  again,  and  by  eleven  o'clock  we 
had  seen  New  Orleans,  the  Eio  Grande  and  was  ordering 
a  second  round  at  Tia  Juana. 

"How  long  will  it  take?"  I  says,  meaning  the  trip,  not 
the  drinks.  "About  two  weeks?" 

"I  know  a  feller  with  Biolock  Motor  Company  done  it 
in  five  days,"  says  Jim.  "Only  we  don't  want  to  hurry 
that  much." 

"We'll  say  a  month  or  three  weeks,"  I  says.  "I  don't 
want  any  of  this  keeping  on  a  schedule,  Jim,  and  I  won't 
do  it.  If  you're  going  to  be  a  timekeper  on  this  trip  I 
won't  make  it,  that's  all.  I  want  to  stop  off  when  I  see 
some  place  I  like,  and  not  be  hauled  away  from  Pike's 
Peak  or  something  just  because  you  have  calculated  we'd 
be  in  the  next  town  four  hours  from  then." 

"Well,  if  you  don't  want  to  make  a  time  record  we'd 
better  not  go  that  extreme  southern  way,"  says  Jim. 
"After  all,  I'm  not  so  sure  but  that  we'll  see  the  most  on 
the  Santa  Fe,  and  I'm  at  least  sure  it's  interesting." 

And  so,  having  shown  our  independence  of  the  A.  A.  A. 
advice  by  flirting  with  our  own  ignorance,  we  come  back 
to  the  Santa  Fe  by  twelve  midnight,  and  having  by  now 
made  a  total  of  over  nine  thousand  miles,  with  a  few  side 
trips  thrown  in,  we  was  pretty  well  exhausted  and  ready 
for  bed. 

"I  hope  the  old  bus  will  make  it,"  says  Jim,  standing  up 
and  yawning.  "I  wonder  if  we  really  had  ought  to  try 
it?" 

"James  Smith,  we  are  going  to  make  that  trip  if  we 
have  to  buy  a  new  car  to-morrow  to  do  it!"  I  says  hotly. 


West  Broadway  55 

"We  got  this  far,  and  now  nothing  would  make  me  back 
out  of  it." 

But  for  the  next  few  days,  which  was  one  wild  rush  to 
get  ready,  I  had  several  times  when  I  would  of  backed 
out — almost.  The  first  time  was  when  I  met  Maison 
Rosabelle.  She  was,  as  usual,  dressed  in  a  ad  of  her 
shop,  giving  the  appearance  of  a  little  child  of  forty-five 
or  so,  with  a  short  dress  but  really  not  sufficient  justifica- 
tion for  it.  I  met  her  in  the  Paris  Intime,  where  I  was 
getting  a  few  handkerchiefs  for  the  trip  in  case  I  ran 
short  and  couldn't  buy  any.  I  always  use  a  particular 
kind  of  handkerchiefs,  you  know,  and  I  was  afraid  I 
wouldn't  be  able  to  buy  them  West. 

Well,  anyways,  there  was  Maison  getting  a  few  prac- 
tical Georgette  winter  weights,  and  of  course  I  mentioned 
casually  that  we  was  going  to  the  coast.  But  did  she  drop 
dead?  She  did  not! 

"Is  that  so,  dearie?"  she  says.  "You  will  find  it  real 
interesting,  only  the  roads  is  awful.  We  went  out  last 
year,  you  know." 

"Oh,"  says  I  kind  of  flat,  "is  that  so?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  says.  "And  let  me  tell  you,  what- 
ever you  do,  be  sure  and  take  a  big  piece  of  canvas  to  put 
under  the  front  wheels  in  case  you  get  stuck  in  the  sand 
and  their  ain't  any  brush  around  to  cut.  And  another 
thing,  if  you  come  to  a  big  washout,  go  down  real  slow, 
and  then  step  on  her  quick  the  very  minute  you  reach 
the  bottom.  Otherwise  you'll  run  the  car's  nose  into  the 
sand  and  be  stuck.  Never  try  to  rush  a  washout  going 
down."  Then  she  turned  to  the  saleslady.  "Any  wash- 
satin  petticoats?"  she  says. 

Maison !  Can  you  beat  it  ?  I  was  so  stunned  you  could 
of  knocked  me  down  with  a  drop  of  a  hat! 

"Did  you  really  drive?"  I  says  humbly  enough  to  suit 
even  a  woman  friend. 


56  West  Broadway 

"I  sure  did!"  says  Maison.  "I  and  Rollo  done  it  in  the 
flivver.  It's  a  bird  of  a  trip,  dearie,  and  be  sure  to  take 
four  pair  of  chains  with  you — you'll  need  'em  in  Illinois — 
and  be  sure  to  put  'em  on  if  it  even  starts  to  rain.  Them 
roads  are  worse  when  it  rains  a  little  than  when  it  rains 
real  bad." 

"How  about  clothes?"  I  says,  gasping  and  looking  at 
this  new  Maison.  But  look  as  I  might,  she  seemed  just 
the  same  as  ever — make-up,  extreme  clothes  and  all.  I 
could  hardly  believe  her,  and  yet  she  was  as  casual  as  if 
speaking  of  seeing  a  new  fillum  or  something. 

"Oh,  clothes!"  says  our  leading  Snappy  Ladies'  Gowns 
and  Modes.  "Oh,  clothes — get  some  old  khaki  thing!" 

Well,  I  walked  out  on  her  at  that!  Of  course  if  she 
chose  to  drive  to  the  coast  in  a  flivver  and  dress  like  a 
bum  that  was  her  own  business,  but  pretty  poor  business, 
it  seemed  to  me.  I  intended  to  be  comfortable  and  attrac- 
tive; of  course  taking  no  more  than  was  necessary — only 
a  few  bags  and  hatboxes  and  maybe  one  small  trunk.  I 
intended  to  dress  smart  but  suitable,  and  of  course  her 
comparing  her  flivver  to  our  Colby-Droit  was  all  jealousy. 

Well,  Maison  wasn't  the  only  one  give  me  a  jolt.  Be- 
cause hardly  had  I  left  her  when  I  ran  into  a  friend  of 
ma's,  Mrs.  Boyd,  and  her  husband,  which  used  to  run  the 
boarding  house  in  Rochester  where  I  have  many  a  time 
stayed  when  on  tower.  Now,  I  thought,  I  will  get  a  rise, 
and  at  least  somebody  will  be  surprised  over  my  trip.  But 
nothing  stirring.  When  we  had  exchanged  healths  and 
so  forth  and  ect.  I  dropped  California  on  them.  But  they 
stood  the  shock  surprisingly. 

"Well,  well!  Now  ain't  that  nice!"  says  old  Mrs.  Boyd. 
"You'll  enjoy  it  real  well,  dearie.  Only  be  sure  and  take 
plenty  of  warm  clothes,  and  see  that  Jim  has  his  winter 
underwear.  There  will  be  plenty  of  cold  mornings  in 
Colorado  and  New  Mexico  when  you  will  be  glad  of  them. ' ' 


West  Broadway  57 

"And  always  carry  a  five-gallon  can  of  gas  and  a  gallon 
of  oil,"  says  old  Mr.  Boyd.  "We  found  that  very  impor- 
tant on  our  first  trip.  If  I  was  you  I  'd  go  right  to  Bush- 
man's  to  the  sporting  goods  department  and  get  your  stuff 
there.  They  know  just  what  you  need  to  take." 

When  I  had  got  my  breath  I  said  good-by  and  beat  it  in 
confusion.  I  began  to  feel  that  if  I  wanted  any  distinction 
or  class  I  had  better  remain  the  only  one  who  had  never 
driven  to  California. 

And  so  I  was  more  or  less  prepared  for  what  I  found  at 
Bushman's  sporting  goods  department,  because  I  did  go 
there.  In  fact,  I  almost  ran  there,  because  I  began  to 
realize  I  was  as  green  as  a  new  extra  having  a  test  made 
for  the  pictures.  I  was  on  my  way  but  I  had  no  ticket ;  I 
was  headed  for  a  strange  country  and  I  didn't  know  the 
language.  What  I  didn't  know  about  this  trip  I  was 
about  to  pull  off  would  fill  all  my  suitcases  and  then  some. 
And  it  being  the  age  of  specialists,  I  determined  to  allow 
the  specialist  on  Bushman's  top  floor  to  practice  on  me 
and  pull  my  ignorance  out  by  the  roots. 

Well,  anyways,  I  hurried  over,  and  there  for  once  I 
found  somebody  who  was  at  least  professionally  interested 
in  my  trip.  This  was  a  fine-looking,  athletic  young  man 
who  had  grown  hale  and  hearty  in  the  breezy  atmosphere 
of  the  sports-goods  department,  what  with  living  among 
the  canoes  and  tennis  nets,  croquet  sets,  bicycles  and 
sweaters  day  after  day.  At  least  that  was  what  I  thought 
at  first,  but  after  I  had  talked  to  him  a  little  and  told  him 
where  I  was  going  I  seen  he  was  the  real  thing  and  no 
bluff  but  did  really  go  out-of-doors  a  lot  in  the  summer, 
and  so  forth,  and  actually  had  used  personally  himself 
the  line  of  goods  he  was  selling,  and  1 11  say  that  is  a  type 
of  man  which  will  go  far.  What  is  further,  he  hadn't 
been  to  California  by  motor,  but  wanted  to  some  day,  and 


£8  West  Broadway 

in  the  meantime  he  had  fitted  out  over  two  hundred  people 
for  the  trip. 

"Going  to  camp?"  he  says.  "No?  Sort  of  a  pity. 
It's  the  real  way  to  enjoy  it.  But,  of  course,  if  your  time 
is  limited — well,  you  must  have  an  ax,  a  good,  practical 
one,  a  collapsible  water  bucket,  and  of  course  a  desert 
water  bag.  Five  gallons  will  be  big  enough  for  you 
people,  I  guess."  And  then  he  showed  me  something 
which  looked  like  what  potatoes  come  in  by  the  bulk,  and 
how  any  water  was  to  stay  in  it  had  me  guessing,  but  he 
said  it  would.  Then  he  sold  me  a  tow  rope  and  the  canvas 
thing  called  a  tarpaulin,  the  one  Maison  had  talked  about, 
and  it  seems  Mr.  Hiyou,  the  salesman,  agreed  with  her 
about  it.  Then  he  sold  me  a  suitcase  which  turned  out 
to  be  a  kitchen  cabinet  when  you  opened  it  up,  with  dishes 
and  knives  and  forks  and  a  vacuum  bottle  and  everything 
but  the  kitchen  stove  in  it,  and  then  he  sold  me  the  kitchen 
stove  in  condensed  form.  But  the  cutest  thing  he  sold  me 
was  called  a  Puller. 

When  I  seen  it  first  I  thought  a  steel  derrick  had  had 
kittens  and  that  this  was  one  of  them.  It  was  made  up  of 
boy's-size  steel  cables  and  a  couple  of  jiggers  like  the  deuce 
of  spades  which  you  was  supposed  to  stick  in  the  ground 
and  then  hitch  the  hook  part  to  the  car  and  turn  on  the 
handle,  and  there  you  were!  I  mean,  you  were  supposed 
to  be  out  of  whatever  you  was  in  when  you  started.  It  was 
the  kind  of  thing  you  see  advertised  as  being  worked 
by  a  sweet  young  bride  in  a  Marcel  wave,  a  spotless  gift 
apron  and  a  permanent  smile.  I  bought  it,  because  by 
that  time  I  was  in  a  sort  of  daze  and  would  of  bought 
anything  he  told  me,  and  feeling  kind  of  depressed  because 
of  the  constant  trouble  we  were  expected  to  have.  So 
finally  I  says,  "Look  here,  brother,"  I  says,  "can't  you 
sell  me  something  cheerful?"  I  says.  "All  you  done  so 
far  is  load  me  up  with  stuff  for  trouble.  It  looks  like 


West  Broadway  59 

you  expected  us  to  have  a  pretty  poor  time  of  it.  How 
about  the  pleasure  aspects  of  this  trip?" 

"You'll  find  them  along  the  route,"  he  says.  "I 
haven't  seen  them  myself.  But  good  heavens,  think  where 
you  are  going — the  prairies,  the  Rockies,  the  Canon !  And 
besides,"  he  says,  and  it  was  the  best  mouthful  so  far — 
"besides,"  he  says,  "a  lot  of  people  go  the  whole  way 
without  any  trouble  at  all.  Why,  I  had  a  feller  in  here 
the  other  day  went  all  the  way  without  changing  a  tire! 
These  things  you  are  getting  are  like  carrying  an  umbrella 
to  keep  it  from  starting  to  rain.  By  the  way,  what  are 
you  going  to  wear?" 

"Why,  clothes — motor  clothes,"  I  says,  "with  lots  of 
linens  and  a  bathing  suit  for  when  I  get  to  the  coast." 

"Well,  if  I  might  suggest  it,"  says  he,  "take  riding 
clothes.  You  will  wear  them  continually  west  of  the 
Eockies." 

Well,  that  sounded  like  good  sense  to  me,  so  I  thanked 
him  and  went  off  to  do  what  little  shopping  I  had  left, 
which  was  merely  a  dust  coat,  a  rain  coat,  goggles,  a 
camera  so's  I'd  be  able  to  get  even  with  some  of  my 
friends  when  I  got  home — only,  of  course,  I  decided  we 
would  not  take  pictures  of  each  other  and  of  the  car, 
which  is  all  the  kind  of  subjects  anybody  ever  seems  to 
bring  back  from  a  trip  with  them  and  says  "Here  is  ma 
in  Colorado  Springs,"  but  ma  is  hiding  the  Springs 
entirely,  and  you  wouldn't  even  know  it  was  her,  only 
they  told  you  so,  but  say  "Oh,  yes,  how  interesting!" 
so  as  not  to  hurt  their  feelings. 

So  having  suffered  a  lot,  I  intended  we  would  snap 
only  the  most  interesting  things  and  afterward  paste  the 
pictures  in  a  book  for  a  kind  of  record  of  the  trip  to 
show  to  the  people  who  really  liked  us  and  to  the  ones 
who  would  not  otherwise  go  home  early. 

So  I  bought  the  camera  and  a  sweater  and  a  couple  of 


60  West  Broadway 

new  bags,  because  of  course  we  had  none  of  the  right 
size  in  the  house,  and  a  person  never  does  have  the  right 
size  bag  for  the  place  they  are  going  to  this  time.  And 
when  I  had  this  all  done,  and  refrained  from  again 
mentioning  California  to  any  of  the  salespeople  for  fear 
of  hearing  about  their  own  trip  out,  I  took  the  precaution 
to  go  to  the  drug  store  and  buy  a  few  emergency  things 
to  carry  in  the  bus. 

I  didn't  want  to  load  it  up  more  than  I  had  to,  because 
the  advice  printed  on  the  map  said  to  load  the  car  light. 
And  so  I  only  bought  iodine  and  cholera  remedy  in  case 
we  drank  bad  water,  and  first-aid  stuff,  and  a  lot  of  soap 
and  two  tubes  of  Jim's  shaving  cream  and  four  of  tooth 
paste,  which  was  a  good  idea,  only  in  the  end  I  forgot 
the  tooth  pastes  and  took  the  cream  and  forgot  his  razor, 
and  it  seems  half  a  tube  of  shaving  cream  lasts  him  a  year. 
But  that,  as  the  poet  says,  is  getting  ahead  of  myself. 
And  then  I  bought  a  book  which  I  found  on  the  drug- 
store table  which  was  called  Transcontinental  Tours — full 
of  photos  of  cars  stuck  in  mud,  but  it  was  highly  recom- 
mended by  the  drug  clerk,  who  had  used  it  on  his  own 
trip.  And  then  I  was  through  and  went  home. 

On  the  front  steps  of  our  elegant  limestone  front,  lemon- 
backed  apartment  I  at  last  got  one  satisfaction  for  which 
I  had  been  looking  for  two  whole  days.  Coming  down 
the  steps  was  Mrs.  Ellen  O'Rourke,  the  lady  who  has  our 
limousine  take  our  wash  around  to  her  place  every  week. 
I  had  only  been  her  acquaintance  a  little  while,  but  I  liked 
her  real  well.  She  was,  aside  from  the  limousine  stuff, 
a  quite  old-fashioned  lady.  I  think  she  was  Irish  too. 
So  when  I  met  her  this  night  coming  out  from  a  visit 
with  our  janitor  I  stopped  to  speak. 

"Mrs.  O'Rourke,"  I  says,  "have  you  ever  motored  to 
California?" 

1 '  Indade  and  I  have  not ! "  says  she.    ' '  Glory  be  to  God, 


West  Broadway  6l 

don't  be  after  tellin'  me  yer  going  all  that  way  in  an 

auttermobile ! ' ' 

"I  am!"  I  says  in  triumph. 

"Saints  presarve  us!"  says  she,  flinging  up  her  hands 
in  excitement.  "What  a  marvelous  thing  to  be  doing! 
I  never  heard  the  like!" 

"Bless  you  for  them  words!"  I  says,  and  I  kissed  her 
on  both  cheeks  and  rushed  into  the  house,  happy  at  last 
that  someone  was  as  surprised  as  I  was  over  my  going. 

Well,  when  I  got  upstairs  the  things  from  the  stores 
had  beaten  me  home  and  was  heaped  in  the  middle  of  our 
period  drawing-room  making  it  look  like  the  period  in- 
tended was  the  Middle  Ages,  and  a  fair  to  middling  repro- 
duction of  a  torture  chamber  at  that.  And  there  looking 
down  at  the  pile  of  chains,  pulleys,  axes  and  buckets, 
sweaters,  medicines  and  so  forth  and  ect.  was  Jim  smoking 
a  cigarette  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  his  hair  as  smooth  as  patent 
leather,  but  his  temper  all  mussed  up  and  wore  out  and 
his  nerves  frazzled  by  the  hard  day 's  shopping  I  had  done. 
He  at  once  started  picking  on  me,  which  is  the  normal 
husband's  way  of  showing  appreciation  of  a  good  wife. 

"Say,  for  the  love  of  Alaska,  where  do  you  think  we 
are  going?"  he  says  the  very  minute  I  got  in  the  door. 
"What  is  all  this  junk  for?  When  do  you  intend  for 
us  to  use  it?" 

"I  haven't  bought  a  thing  except  absolutely  necessary 
ones!"  I  says  indignantly.  "We  will  need  every  one  of 
them — just  you  wait  and  see!" 

"Wait  my  eye!"  says  Jim.  "If  we  are  going  to  need 
all  them  things  on  this  trip  I  'm  not  going  on  it !  Where 
are  we  going  to  sit  with  all  this  stuff  in  the  car — tell  me 
that?" 

"The  Colby-Droit  is  a  four-passenger  sports  model, 
ain't  she?"  I  demanded.  "And  there  will  only  be  the 
three  of  us,  counting  Rollo,"  I  says.  "We  got  all  the  room 


62  West  Broadway 

in  the  world.  Besides,  I'm  only  taking  a  suitcase  and  a 
bag,  a  dressing  case,  a  hatbox  and  three  pillows,  besides 
my  golf  clubs  and  camera.  There'll  be  lots  of  room  to 
spare." 

"Hell!"  says  Jim  to  show  he  was  a  man.  "I've  a  good 
mind  not  to  take  Hollo!" 

"What  do  you  know  about  car  anatomy?"  I  says.  "A 
swell  time  we'd  have  in  the  middle  of  the  desert  if  she 
busted!  It's  all  right  to  bluff  to  your  friends,  but  not 
to  your  wife  on  a  trip  like  this.  We  can't  go  without 
a  mechanic,  and  you  know  it." 

"Well,  I  suppose  that's  the  truth,"  he  says.  "Of 
course,  I  can  do  any  ordinary  thing  to  the  boat,  but  there 
had  better  be  two  of  us  men  in  case  of  anything  serious 
going  wrong." 

This  was  the  fourth  time  we  had  settled  this  question 
since  the  trip  was  thought  of,  and  so  we  went  on  to  fights 
we  had  had  only  two  or  three  times,  like  what  to  carry 
or  about  getting  everything  arranged  for  ma  and  the  baby. 
And  I  made  no  further  remarks  about  taking  the  chauf- 
feur, but  was  determined  we  would  do  so.  Somehow  or 
other  I  never  feel  I  really  trust  Jim  about  the  car,  either 
in  driving  it  or  in  fixing  it,  and  I  would  no  more  of  made 
the  trip  without  a  mechanic  than  I  would  of  made  it 
barefoot,  and  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  Jim  wouldn't  of 
either. 

And  so,  believe  me,  when  after  one  week  of  struggle, 
of  packing  the  suitcases  and  unpacking  them  again  and 
repacking  them  so's  we  could  take  out  what  we  would 
want  in  the  different  climates  we  expected  to  find  without 
disturbing  the  rest,  and  then  forgetting  something  and 
having  to  do  it  all  over  again;  and  after  paying  our  bills 
and  getting  travelers'  checks  and  saying  good-by  to  every- 
body— well,  and  so,  believe  me,  when  the  day  before  we 


West  Broadway  63 

was  to  start  Rollo  the  chauffeur  give  notice  that  he  wasn't 
going  with  us,  well,  that  was  some  blow! 

At  first  we  thought  it  was  a  hold-up  for  a  raise,  but 
money  was  no  object,  and  he  also  claimed  love  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it — at  least  not  love  of  any  woman.  It  was 
the  city — he  couldn't  leave  it. 

"I  just  can't  do  it,"  he  says.  "I  can't  leave  little  old 
New  York  for  those  jay  burgs.  I  tried  to  make  up  my 
mind  to  it,  but  nix!  I'm  real  sorry,  folks,  but  I'm  not 
going!" 

And  after  all  we'd  done  for  that  man!  There's  the 
servant  problem  for  you!  It  certainly  got  my  goat  and 
had  me  worried,  because  of  what  I  have  said  about  the  car 
and  Jim.  And  Jim  was  worried  sick  too. 

Well,  we  telephoned  every  place,  but  to  no  avail.  It 
seemed  like  nobody  with  a  reference  wanted  to  leave  the 
city.  And  we  was  due  to  start  next  morning  at  nine  A.M. 
I  couldn't — wouldn't  wait  a  day  or  two,  because  by  now, 
of  course,  our  contracts  was  signed  and  we  had  to  be  in 
Los  Angeles  by  October  tenth.  It  meant  go  without  a 
mechanic  or  give  up  the  trip,  and  I  was  not  the  one  to 
do  it  with  my  things  all  packed.  And  then  at  two  P.M. 
Rollo  come  around  with  the  limousine  to  take  me  on  one 
or  two  last  errands  while  Jim  was  over  to  the  employment 
agency  on  a  last  hope  and  said  the  speedometer  on  the 
Colby  was  broken.  I  stood  looking  at  him  too  deeply 
peeved  for  tears.  He  had  it  with  him,  having  taken  it 
out  of  the  other  car.  Of  course,  the  speedometer  was 
busted!  What  was  a  person  to  expect?  Huh?  That's 
what  I  thought,  or  as  much  of  what  I  thought  as  is  fit 
to  repeat.  What  I  said  aloud  was,  "Well,  Rollo,"  I  says 
calmly,  "there  is  only  one  thing  to  do.  Drive  me  right 
up  to  the  speedometer  place  and  I'll  wait  there  until  they 
fix  it." 

Well,  Rollo  says  all  right,  he  knew  where  the  place  was, 


64  West  Broadway 

and  I  got  in  to  be  absolutely  sure  it  was  done,  and  we 
went  on  uptown,  I  boiling  with  rage  but  determined  now 
to  start  to-morrow  as  per  schedule  if  I  died  for  it.  And 
when  I  come  to  sufficiently  to  look  around  the  limousine 
had  stopped  in  front  of  a  tall  garagy-looking  building  up 
in  West  Sixty-seventh  Street.  It  was  a  part  of  the  city 
that  is  all  like  that — big  ten-story  garages,  supply  places 
and  what  not,  with  any  number  of  tough-looking  motor 
pirates  hanging  around,  and  no  end  of  cars  of  every  kind. 
Rollo  left  the  engine  running,  jumped  down  and  stuck 
his  head  in  the  door. 

"I'll  just  go  in  and  get  the  man  to  take  a  look  at  it  if 
he's  here,  Mrs.  Smith,"  he  says,  the  brute,  and  then  he 
shut  the  door  and  faded  into  the  building.  And  I  waited, 
huddled  up  in  a  corner  of  the  back  seat  and  as  sulky  and 
mad  as  they  make  'em.  But  I  didn't  have  to  wait  long, 
and  what  happened  was  done  so  quick  I  could  scarcely 
take  it  all  in. 

Down  the  block  a  police  whistle  blew,  and  one  second 
later  a  well-dressed  perfectly  strange  young  man  sprang 
onto  the  front  seat  of  my  limousine,  threw  it  into  gear, 
the  car  lurched  forward  and  in  another  instant  we  were 
moving  off  down  the  street  at  top  speed. 


BELIEVE  me,  with  that  car  of  mine  shooting  down 
towards  the  Hudson,  driven  by  a  crazy  man  or  a  thief 
and  a  perfect  stranger  to  me,  I  was  in  a  worse  fix  than 
even  when  I  made  that  famous  eighteen-part  million-dollar 
serial,  The  Perils  of  Palmetta,  because  of  course  this  time 
it  was  real,  with  a  police  whistle  blowing  instead  of  a 
camera  clicking  behind  us.  But  for  three  blocks,  which 
we  covered  them  in  under  two  minutes,  I  could  hardly 
realize  that  the  director  would  not  yell  for  us  to  come  back 
and  that  I  was  actually  being  kidnapped  and  no  fillum- 
flam  about  it. 

When  this  horrible  fact  finally  did  register  with  me, 
however,  I  commenced  a  sort  of  weaving  back  and  forth 
on  my  seat  like  a  blind  puppy,  making  little  noises.  I  was 
so  scared  I  couldn't  make  any  louder  sounds.  And  then 
I  began  to  remember  the  pieces  I  had  lately  seen  in  the 
papers  about  murder  cars,  bond  thefts  and  pieces  of  bodies 
of  the  female  sect  being  shipped  away  in  trunks  or  fished 
out  of  the  river  and  so  forth  and  ect.  like  a  drownding 
person  is  supposed  to  during  their  last  moment.  Only  one 
sane  thing  stood  out  real  clear  in  my  mind,  and  that  was 
my  diamond  bar  pin  and  my  five-carrot  ring,  and  I  decided 
I  would  save  them  at  all  costs  except  my  life,  and  by  some 
feminine  instinct  I  slipped  them  off  and  tucked  them 
down  the  side  of  the  seat  under  the  upholstery.  I  done 
this  like  an  automat,  and  then  as  we  took  a  sudden  swing 
southward  on  Ninth  Avenue  I  was  thrown  violently  across 
the  seat,  and  there  was  a  traffic  cop  on  the  crossing. 

"Help!"  I  yelled,  plunging  toward  the  window. 
65 


66  West  Broadway 

But  what  do  you  know?  The  cop  thought  I  was  flirting 
with  him,  smiled  and  waved  back  at  me,  and  let  my  new 
chauffeur  dart  through  ahead  of  the  rest  of  the  traffic ! 
As  he  did  so  I  realized  that  in  falling  forward  I  had 
grabbed  hold  of  the  speaking  tube  so  that  when  I  yelled 
it  had  been  covered  by  my  hand.  And  at  the  same 
moment  it  come  over  me  that  the  thief  didn't  know  there 
was  anybody  inside  the  limousine!  He  wasn't  kidnapping 
me,  because  he  didn  't  know  that  I  was  there ! 

Right  away  I  set  out  to  cure  that,  and  pounded  on  the 
glass  with  all  my  might.  The  thief  was  a  good  driver, 
I'll  say,  because,  while  it  must  of  scared  him  half  to  death, 
he  only  swerved  a  little — escaped  an  elevated  pillar  and 
darted  around  two  trucks  before  he  turned  his  head.  He 
give  me  one  swift  look — his  mouth  wide,  his  eyes  staring, 
his  whole  face  like  a  Japanese  mask  with  astonishment. 
Then  he  turned  back  to  the  wheel,  and  instead  of  stopping 
stepped  on  her  good  and  hard,  and  commenced  a  drive  the 
like  of  which  would  of  made  a  picture's  fortune  in  the  old 
pie-comedy  days,  darting  across  one  street  and  back  again 
up  another — shooting  along  down  a  avenue  and  winding 
in  and  out  among  drays  and  trucks,  pushcarts  and  delivery 
wagons  at  about  forty  miles  a  hour,  but  without  even 
nicking  one  of  them.  The  car,  which  Hollo  was  always 
kicking  about,  was  smooth  as  butter  in  this  guy's  hands. 
I  had  to  notice  it,  even  at  this  time. 

But  I  wasn't  sitting  still  all  this  while  admiring  the 
bird's  driving — not  exactly!  I  was  raising  the  very  devil 
and  all,  but  apparently  it  meant  nothing  in  his  desperate 
young  life.  He  never  even  turned  to  look  back  again,  no 
matter  how  I  pounded  on  the  glass  or  yelled  into  the 
speaking  tube  that  I  was  Marie  La  Tour  and  I  couldn't 
disappear  without  it  being  noticed  and  my  husband  would 
kill  him  and  my  cousin  was  a  police  captain  and  would 
hare  him  pinched  and  a  lot  more.  He  never  seemed  to 


West  Broadway  67 

hear  me,  but  just  hunched  his  shoulders  and  kept  his  mind 
on  his  business,  whatever  it  was. 

Was  I  scared?  Oh,  boy!  But  by  now  I  was  thinking 
clearer,  and  I  realized  this  trip  couldn't  last  forever.  As 
we  got  further  downtown  we  was  bound  to  run  into  a 
traffic  jam,  and  all  I  would  have  to  do  was  open  the  door 
and  step  out.  We  were  coming  down  Tenth  Avenue  to- 
ward Fifty-ninth  Street  now,  and  there  was  certain  to  be 
crosstown  traffic  and  a  cop  there.  And  I  was  right — a 
block  away  I  could  see  street  cars  going  over.  But  the 
devil  was  with  my  driver,  because  at  that  very  minute 
the  whistle  blew  and  we  sailed  by  that  crossing  without 
even  a  hesitation,  much  less  a  stop,  and  at  the  same  time 
I  suddenly  realized  there  was  windows  to  that  bus  of 
mine  which  could  be  let  down,  which  only  goes  to  show 
what  a  boob  a  person  can  be  not  to  of  thought  of  this 
before. 

But  when  I  did  remember,  it  took  me  several  minutes 
to  open  one,  because  they  are  the  old-fashioned  kind  that 
work  on  a  strap,  and  you  have  to  tease  them  down  even 
in  calm  weather,  and  at  the  rate  we  was  traveling  it  took 
longer  than  per  usual. 

My  efforts  got  some  results,  just  the  same,  because  the 
driver  evidently  saw  what  I  was  up  to  and  decided  it  was 
time  to  quit.  At  Fifty-seventh  Street  he  turned  west  off 
the  roaring  Avenue  into  the  comparative  quiet  of  the  side 
street,  and  to  my  astonishment  parked  smoothly  at  the 
curb  in  front  of  some  quiet-looking  brownstone  apartments 
where  only  a  few  kids  was  playing  on  the  sidewalk,  jumped 
down  from  his  seat,  opened  the  door  and  stuck  his  head 
in  with  a  grin. 

"It's  all  right,  Miss  La  Tour,"  he  says  calmly.  "I 
guess  we  gave  them  the  slip.  Where  shall  I  take  you  to 
now?" 


68  West  Broadway 

And  I  fell  back  on  my  seat  without  for  a  moment  a 
word  to  say.  The  man  was  young  Tom  Westman. 

"You!"  I  says,  completely  taken  off  my  feet,  or  would 
of  been,  only  of  course  I  was  already  sitting  down.  "Mr. 
Westman!" 

"Correct!"  he  says  briskly.  "May  I  come  in  a  minute 
and  sit  down?  We  can  talk  more  convenient  and  less 
conspicuous. ' ' 

Hardly  knowing  what  I  was  about,  I  moved  over  and 
Tom  Westman  got  in  and  shut  the  door. 

"Whew!"  he  says,  taking  off  his  hat  and  wiping  his 
forehead,  which  was  damp  with  excitement.  "That  was 
a  narrow  thing!  Miss  La  Tour,  first  of  all,  I  owe  you 
an  apology.  Lord,  how  scared  you  must  have  been! 
Can  you  forgive  me?" 

"Forgive  you?"  I  says,  bewildered.  "Young  man,  is 
stealing  cars  your  business,  or  did  you  know  this  was 
mine?" 

"No — to  both  questions,"  he  says.  "Miss  La  Tour, 
don't  get  scared  again,  but  I'm  a  desperate  man.  I'm  in 
a  lot  of  trouble,  and  I  'd  have  taken  any  car  that  happened 
to  be  there.  I  had  to,  that's  all!  I'd  have  left  it  some 
place  and  telephoned  the  police  where  it  was  later  if  it 
hadn't  happened  by  a  miracle  of  good  luck  to  have  you 
in  it.  At  least  I  suppose  that  was  in  the  back  of  my 
mind  when  I  did  this." 

"But  what  have  you  done?"  I  demanded  to  know. 
"What  have  you  done  outside  of  pinching  my  car?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  he  says  grimly  enough  now,  and 
peering  out  of  the  window  to  be  sure  no  one  was  after 
us  yet.  "I  can't  tell  you  a  thing,  Miss  La  Tour,  except 
that  I  haven't  committed  any  crime  except  stealing — or 
borrowing — you  and  your  limousine.  I  swear  by  all  that 
I  hold  sacred,  that  is  the  truth !  But  if  I  was  to  be  caught 


West  Broadway  69 

right  now  I  couldn't  prove  it  to  save  my  life.  And  'my 
life'  is  right — it  might  easily  mean  that." 

"But  what  are  you  running  away  for  if  you  are  so 
innocent?"  I  says. 

"I  tell  you  it  was  necessary — absolutely  necessary!" 
he  exclaimed.  "Can't  you — won't  you  believe  me?" 

I  was  watching  his  troubled  young  face  real  close  while 
he  talked,  and  there  was  something  about  his  eyes — the 
same  thing  which  I  had  noticed  that  night  when  I  had 
talked  to  him  down  at  the  Mocking  Turtle — that  made  me 
inclined  to  believe  in  him. 

"Ill  keep  your  secret,"  I  says  doubtfully.  "But  I 
do  think  you  owe  it  to  me  to  let  me  in  on  it." 

"I  owe  it  to  somebody  else  not  to  tell!"  he  says  des- 
perately. "To  somebody  who  is  very  dear  to  me.  It 
means  everything  in  my  life — can  you  get  that  ?  And  it 's 
only  for  to-night  I  need  your  silence.  I'll — I'll  have  to 
leave  town  to-morrow — to-night,  if  possible — and  you 
won't  be  troubled  by  me  again.  I  swear  I'm  not  a  crook. 
You  can  look  up  my  record  in  the  Red  Cross  and  as  a 
mechanic  too.  I've  been  a  steady  worker  always.  Believe 
me,  I  am  doing  this  for  reasons  you  couldn't  help  having 
sympathy  over  if  you  knew  them." 

There  was  a  ring  to  his  voice  which  listened  to  me  like 
the  real  thing.  I  remembered  how  well  I  had  liked  him 
the  time  before,  and  somehow,  in  spite  of  my  good  sense,, 
I  decided  he  was  telling  the  truth.  After  all,  hadn't  I 
seen  hundreds  of  pictures  with  this  very  idea  of  a  innocent 
crook  at  the  bottom  of  them?  Besides,  if  he  wasn't  on 
the  level,  why  hadn  't  he  run  away  after  he  parked  instead 
of  wasting  all  this  time  talking,  or  why  didn't  he  hold  me 
up  or  something? 

I  decided  to  ask  anyways. 

"Why  didn't  you  beat  it,"  I  says,  "when  you  got  down 
off  the  front  seat?" 


7O  West  Broadway 

"Because  when  I  saw  it  was  you,"  he  says,  "I  wanfed 
to  explain.  And  I  was  sorry  for  frightening  you.  We 
are  safe  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  I  wanted  to  be  sure  you 
was  all  right.  And  now  shall  I  drive  you  home,  or  would 
you  rather  I  just  left  you  here  and  went  away?  I'll  do 
just  as  you  tell  me.  This  is  a  big  city,  and  it's  perfectly 
possible  that  I  can  do  it  safe  enough,  although  by  now 
your  driver  will  have  given  the  cops  the  license  number. 
What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

Well,  I  just  sat  for  a  moment  and  thought  hard. 

"What  did  you  say  would  happen  if  you  was  caught?" 
I  says  at  last. 

"They'd  let  me  go,"  he  replied,  which  was  not  at  all 
what  I  expected.  "They'd  let  me  go.  But  somebody  else 
— the  one  I  told  you  of — would  suffer." 

"But  what  did  you  mean  then  by  talking  about  your 
life  being  in  danger?"  I  says  quick,  and  watching  him 
very  sharp. 

"I  meant  my  life  in  the  other  sense,"  he  says  simply. 
And  there  was  something  in  his  voice  decided  me.  Maybe 
I  was  a  fool,  but  a  person  has  to  take  a  chance  once  in  a 
while  as  they  walk  through  life,  and  the  same  is  true  of 
motoring  through  it. 

"See  here,  Tom  Westman,"  I  says  slowly,  "I  believe 
you,  and  I  'm  going  to  take  a  chance  on  you.  You  are  in 
a  hole  and  so  am  I.  To-morrow  morning  at  nine  o'clock 
my  husband  and  me  are  leaving  for  California  by  auto- 
mobile, and  we  haven't  got  any  chauffeur.  Do  you  want 
to  go?" 

Well,  I  guess  that  handed  him  as  big  a  surprise  as  he 
had  handed  me  that  afternoon,  all  right,  all  right.  He 
looked  like  he  thought  it  was  just  too  much  luck,  and  he 
was  pretty  near  right. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  he  cried. 

"I  sure  do!"  I  says.    "Always  providing  Jim  hasn't 


West  Broadway  71 

got  the  place  already  filled  from  the  agency.  You  see, 
I  look  at  it  this  way:  Whoever  he  hires  on  such  short 
notice  we  will  be  taking  a  terrible  chance  on,  and  I  don't 
know  but  that  I'd  rather  know  in  the  first  place  that  the 
chauffeur  was  in  the  habit  of  stealing  the  car,  kidnapping 
people  and  dodging  the  police.  At  that,  you  probably  got 
a  cleaner  record  than  a  whole  lot  of  drivers." 

"You  can  look  me  up — have  your  husband  do  it,"  he 
says  earnestly.  "Ask  the  people  I'll  send  you  to  anything 
you  wish.  But  don't,  please,  tell  them  why  you  want  to 
know."  His  face  was  all  lighted  up  like — well,  like  a 
church.  And  then  he  got  a  thought  which  switched  the 
current  off. 

"But  everyone  will  know  you  folks.  Why,  you  will  be 
in  the  spotlight  the  whole  ways  to  the  coast,  and  they'd 
nick  me  in  a  minute ! "  he  says. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind!"  I  says,  getting  more  interested 
all  the  time.  "We  are  going  without  any  trumpets  at  all 
for  reasons  of  my  own,"  I  says.  "And  being  spotted  will 
be  the  least  of  your  worries,"  I  says.  "Just  so  long  as 
you  are  absolutely  sure  you  ain't  murdered  anybody  or 
anything ! ' ' 

"I  swear!"  he  says  solemnly. 

"Well,  then,"  I  says,  "let's  go!  Hollo's  other  uniform 
was  on  its  way  to  winter  quarters.  It's  in  that  box.  Put 
on  the  coat  and  cap  and  let's  go  home  and  talk  Jim  into 
doing  a  little  telephoning." 

"Oy,  gewicht!"  said  the  boy.  "You  will  never  regret 
*this.  By  my  mother,  I  swear  it!" 

And  then  he  done  like  I  told  him  with  the  coat  and  ect. 
and  actually  on  my  word  we  got  home  to  Riverside  Drive 
without  a  hitch.  And  when  we  arrived  it  was  by  then 
dark.  I  told  young  Westman  to  leave  the  bus  and  come 
up  with  me,  and  he  did,  and  there  was  Jim,  waiting  with 


72  West  Broadway 

all  the  patience  and  good  humor  of  a  wild  animal  in  a 
strange  cage. 

"Well,  did  you  get  a  chauffeur?"  I  says  gayly  coming  in. 

"Yes,  I  did — not!"  says  Jim.  "And  how  you  think 

we  are  going  to  start  without Hello,  who  have  we  with 

us?" 

"The  chauffeur  I  so  effectively,  though  a  mere  woman, 
have  engaged, ' '  I  says.  ' '  Come  in,  Tom,  and  get  the  razoo 
over  with!" 

And  razoo  was  right.  When  Jim  was  wised  up  to  the 
facts  he  hit  the  ceiling  so  hard  he  should  of  made  a  dent 
in  it.  But  when  we  commenced  talking  references,  and 
one  of  them  was  a  agent  Jim  knew  real  well,  why,  he  kept 
his  feet  on  the  orientals  long  enough  to  use  the  phone, 
and  presently  come  back  twenty  degrees  cooler  to  say 
Kaufman  says  the  boy  is  O.K.  and  he  recommends  him 
highly. 

"Well,"  says  Jim  at  length,  "I  suppose  we  aren't  taking 
any  more  chance  than  we  would  be  with  a  perfect  stranger. 
But  just  put  this  in  your  bank  and  draw  on  it,  Westman — 
we  are  trusting  you  about  this  mystery  thing,  and  heaven 
help  you  if  you  get  us  any  sour  publicity ! ' ' 

Well,  Westman  promised  and  went  away,  after  agreeing 
he  would  come  back  at  eight-thirty  prompt  next  morning, 
because  we  wanted  to  get  a  early  start  and  make  Baltimore 
by  night  unless  he  was  arrested  in  the  meanwhile. 

Well,  then  I  went  down  and  got  the  diamonds  I  had 
parked  in  the  upholstery,  and  then  to  save  trouble  Jim 
took  the  car  around  to  the  garage  and  paid  off  Rollo,  who 
turned  up  there,  and  the  next  morning  he  went  around 
again  and  got  the  Colby-Droit,  which  by  now  had  the 
somewhat  mended  speedometer  in  it,  and  brought  it  to  the 
house.  And  Tom  Westman  wasn't  pinched  overnight,  but 
showed  up  on  time  with  a  neat  suit  and  one  small  bag 
and  a  face  that  in  the  clear  daylight  didn't  look  like  he 


West  Broadway  73 

and  crime  had  the  least  thing  to  do  with  each  other,  and 
also  he  looked  the  engine  over  voluntarily  while  we  was 
getting  in  the  bags. 

Well,  I  will  say  we  got  started  without  any  unnecessary 
fuss  and  nonsense.  My  bag  didn't  have  to  be  opened  for 
the  last  time  more  than  three  times,  and  I  only  went  back 
five  times  to  kiss  my  baby,  which  was  pretty  good  for  a 
mother  who  was  leaving  her  child  to  the  mercies  of  its 
grandmother.  And  then  when  Jim  had  strapped  the 
small  bags  on  the  running  board  and  taken  them  off  again 
and  strapped  the  big  ones  in  their  place  and  undone  the 
straps  again  to  cover  them  with  the  tarpaulin  and  re- 
strapped  them  he  come  up  and  got  the  rest  of  the  things. 

We  really  took  very  little  stuff  with  us,  having  only  two 
big  bags  and  the  Puller  on  one  running  board,  the  tool  box 
on  the  other,  my  dressing  bag,  Jim's  ditto,  the  four  chains 
in  a  sack,  the  ax,  the  water  bucket,  the  lunch  wagon,  the 
vacuum  bottle,  camera,  our  two  sets  of  golf  clubs  just  in 
case,  Tom's  bag,  three  pillows,  a  cardboard  hatbox  with 
my  other  hat  in  it,  and  Welcome,  our  doormat  dog — one 
of  these  Sealyhams  that  is  so  fashionable,  and  I  wouldn't 
leave  him  behind  for  worlds,  even  though  ma,  now  that  she 
was  sure  I  was  on  my  way  and  couldn't  turn  back,  kept 
muttering  insults  about  women  which  left  their  child  but 
took  the  hound,  which  had  just  enough  truth  in  it  to  hurt, 
but  I  would  not  give  her  any  satisfaction  by  showing  it. 

Well,  anyways,  when  all  this  stuff  was  in  the  bus  you 
could  see  we  was  going  some  place.  I  thought  it  looked 
real  snappy — sort  of  Far  and  Wide  and  Westward  ho! 
But  to  Jim  it  looked  like  a  good  subject  for  complaint. 

' '  What  do  you  want  them  cushions  for  ? "  he  says.  ' '  We 
look  like  the  King  and  Queen  of  the  first  of  May,"  he  says. 
' '  And  that  hatbox !  Let 's  can  some  of  this  junk !  Any- 
body would  think  we  was  going  to  Alaska!" 

"Better  take  them,"  I  says.    "Here  we  been  waiting 


74  West  Broadway 

half  an  hour  for  you  to  get  that  car  packed,  and  now  you 
wanner  unpack  it  again.  Leave  it  alone !  We  '11  never  get 
started  at  this  rate!" 

"Well,  all  right!  Just  wait  for  one  more  thing,"  says 
Jim.  "Just  hold  on  until  I  set  the  speedo  blank,  and  we 
are  on  our  way!" 

' '  Oh,  and  I  forgot  the  lap  robe ! "  I  says,  starting  to  get 
out  of  the  front  seat  after  just  having  got  into  it. 

' '  Oh,  to  hell  with  it ! "  says  Jim,  climbing  in  back  with 
the  other  luggage.  "What  do  you  want  to  delay  the  game 
for  any  more?  We'll  get  to  Baltimore  after  the  town  is 
closed,  anyhow,  at  this  rate!" 

"Who's  delaying  the  game?"  I  says  indignantly,  but 
getting  back  again  into  my  seat  next  to  the  driver.  "All 
right,  we'll  buy  another  one  if  we  need  it — shoot  her, 
Tom!" 

And  young  Westman,  who  was  giving  a  first-class  imita- 
tion of  a  stiff-necked  chauffeur,  but  anxiously  watching 
the  street  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  stepped  on  her,  and 
by  the  Great  Night  Lights  of  Broadway  we  was  off! 
Actually  on  our  way! 

Words  cannot  picture  the  queer  thrill  it  give  me  to 
know  in  my  heart  we  was  all  set  to  do  in  luxury  that  which 
some  of  our  ancestors  had  done  with  ox  carts  and  sheer 
will  power.  Of  course,  we  was  yet  right  in  the  same  little 
old  Manhattan  streets  that  was  so  familiar,  and  still  and 
all  they  didn't  seem  the  same — I'll  say  they  didn't !  They 
had  a  kind  of  magic  to  them  as  I  set  there  on  the  front 
seat  with  a  heavy  chiffon  veil  and  a  dust  coat  over  my  oldest 
suit,  the  dog  in  my  lap  and  the  blue-book  in  my  hand. 
I  felt  like  it  couldn't  be  true,  and  yet  there  we  was,  the 
top  down  and  the  clear  September  sun  shining  on  us 
dazzlingly,  the  air  just  full  of  pep  like  it  sometimes  is 
in  New  York.  I  felt  like  I  could  sing.  But  instead,  as 
we  was  crossing  on  the  Twenty-third  Street  ferry  to 


West  Broadway  75 

Hoboken,  I  turned  to  Jim  and  says  softly,  "I  found  your 
toothbrush  in  the  bathroom  and  put  it  in,  dear,"  I  says. 

And  Jim  give  me  a  peach  of  a  smile. 

"Thanks,  cutie,"  he  says.     "Say,  isn't  this  fun?" 

"  I  '11  say  it  is ! "  I  says,  smiling  back. 

And  so  we  both  realized  we  was  still  quite  fond  of  each 
other,  and  it  was  like  two  sweethearts  meeting  at  the  old 
mill  stream  after  being  in  a  crowd  for  weeks  and  weeks,  or 
the  beginning  of  a  honeymoon.  And  yet  we  hadn't  even 
got  as  far  as  Hoboken!  I  felt  soft  and  generous  and 
didn't  want  to  leave  anybody  out,  so  I  turned  to  young 
Westman. 

"Seems  hard  to  realize  we  are  really  on  our  way,"  I 
says.  "Will  it  be  new  to  you?" 

"I've  never  been  anywhere  in  America  more  than  a 
hundred  miles  from  New  York,"  he  says.  "Will  we  see 
any  Indians,  do  you  think?" 

He  was  just  like  a  twelve-year-old  kid. 

"Ill  say  we  will!"  I  says. 

"Oy,  gewalt!"  says  Tom  enthusiastically. 

"I  feel  free  from  every  care,"  I  says.  "Why,  I  haven't 
even  seen  the  morning  paper,  and  I  don 't  want  to !  I  'm 
going  to  see  America,  and,  believe  me,  that's  all  the  news 
I  want!" 

Westman  made  a  funny  sound  at  that,  but  at  the  time 
I  scarcely  noticed  it,  because  a  minute  later  we  shot  out 
onto  the  Hoboken  Cliff  Road,  and  I  settled  back  to  the 
observing  which  was  the  main  object  of  my,  as  the  poet 
says,  sentimental  journey. 

It  has  always  been  my  way,  when  starting  off  to  any 
place  I  haven't  been  before,  to  look  for  things  which  will 
be  strange  and  new,  even  before  I  come  to  them.  I  get  all 
set  like  an  eager  camera  to  snap  the  first  out-of-the- 
ordinary  thing  I  bump  into,  and  while,  of  course,  I  couldn't 
rightly  expect  to  see  anything  real  Western  for  some  little 


76  West  Broadway 

time  yet,  I  was  on  the  key  five,  as  the  French  say,  right 
from  the  drop  of  the  rope.  And  so  I  didn't  hesitate  about 
taking  in  facts  and  impressions  of  my  dear  country  begin- 
ning with  the  direct  route  to  Philadelphia. 

That  is  to  say,  I  would  of  begun  my  observations  on  it, 
only  the  road  was  giving  a  imitation  of  a  shell-shocked 
battlefield,  and  so  most  of  my  observation  had  to  confine 
itself  to  which  part  of  the  car  to  hang  onto  and  where  it 
was  safest  to  land  when  I  hit  the  seat  again.  I  don  rt  know 
is  that  road  left  the  way  it  is — all  concrete  waves  and  un- 
finished artesian  wells — as  a  kind  of  preliminary  training 
for  the  transcontinental  tourist,  but  I  guess  it  must  be  for 
that  reason,  and  it 's  the  truth  that  while  we  later  saw  some 
fierce  roads  we  saw  absolutely  nothing  any  worse  for  paving. 

Under  these  conditions  most  people  would  of  been  blind 
to  what  they  was  passing  through  except  in  the  sense  of 
bodily  torture,  but  being  as  I  was,  out  to  see  my  National 
Real  Estate,  I  managed  to  realize  that  we  went  through  a 
lot  of  factories — whole  towns  of  them — and  a  person  would 
hardly  believe  it,  but  some  of  them  buildings  actually 
covered  acres  of  ground — no  kidding !  And  it  was  kind  of 
a  shock  to  see  how  much  stuff  that  a  person  only  thinks  of 
as  sort  of  growing  on  a  store  counter  is  actually  made. 
We  felt  quite  excited  whenever  we  recognized  the  home  of 
a  brand  of  anything,  especially  if  we  used  the  article  our- 
selves. It  seemed  sort  of  funny,  someways,  to  see  the  place 
where  flivvers  was  assembled  or  rubber  bands  come  from, 
or  so  forth  and  ect.  It  wasn't  pretty,  not  after  we  left 
Newark,  with  its  lovely  park  and  artistic  buildings  around 
it,  and  got  onto  the  main-traveled  line,  following  the 
Lincoln  Highway.  It  was  sure  a  grim,  smoky  stretch,  but 
pretty  near  everything  in  the  world  seemed  to  be  made 
there,  and  Jim  and  young  Westman  kept  pulling  statistics 
about  costs  and  capital  on  each  other  about  these  concerns 
which  would  make  your  hair  stand  on  end;  and  of  course 


West  Broadway  77 

they  may  not  of  been  correct,  but  it  give  them  pleasure 
and  sounded  terrible  wealthy,  and  we  didn't  stop  to  check 
up  on  the  companies'  books  as  we  went  by.  However, 
right  or  wrong,  there  sure  was  money  tied  up  there;  but 
what  it  had  done  to  the  landscape  was  a  crime  until  we 
left  Trenton,  which  was  not  full  of  colonial  uniforms  as  I 
had  sort  of  expected,  because  of  always  thinking  of  Gen. 
Geo.  Washington  being  there,  but  which  was  full  of  fac- 
tories instead. 

Here  the  houses  commenced  to  be  a  different  style,  and 
pretty  soon  we  begun  to  go  through  these  Jersey  truck 
gardens  you  read  about — big  farms,  they  are,  not  auto 
factories  as  you  might  think  from  the  name — but  farms 
with  celery  you  could  smell  a  long  ways  off,  and  peach 
trees  turning  pale  yellow  and  pink  and  lovely  advertising 
signs  as  the  principal  crops.  The  closer  we  come  to  Philly 
the  better  the  roads  got,  and  the  prettier  the  houses — lots 
of  them  was  of  stone — a  sort  of  yellow  color,  with  high 
roofs,  and  looked  like  they  had  been  built  forever,  but 
custom  built,  and  would  last  as  long  again,  and  a  good 
example  of  the  great  truth  that  economy  is  the  road  to 
ruin,  if  you  get  me. 

Well,  Philly  was  no  news  to  me  nor  to  Jim  either  on 
account  of  we  had  often  played  it,  and  so  after  we  had 
eaten  a  deservedly  well-known  fish  blue-plate  luncheon 
by  mutual  agreement,  because  soon  we  would  be  going 
inland  to  where  the  lobster  was  not  and  the  oyster  lan- 
guished in  the  can;  and  taking  turns,  he  and  I  going  in 
first  while  Tom  sat  in  the  open  car  to  watch  the  bags,  and 
then  we  sat  in  it  while  he  ate,  and  for  the  first  time  the 
fact  occurred  to  us  that  all  those  things  we  had  brought 
was  going  to  be — as  Jim  put  it — a  hellova  nuisance,  be- 
cause we  couldn't  possibly  check  them  every  time  we  ate, 
and  we  couldn't  leave  them  either. 

Well,  anyways,  we  ate  and  beat  it,  and  done  our  best 


78  West  Broadway 

getting  out  of  the  Quaker  City,  because  some  of  the  streets 
have  numbers  and  some  have  names,  and  I  notice  it's 
the  same  with  all  cops  and  all  natives  in  that  place  or  any 
other — they  think  you  are  a  boob  if  you  don't  know  just 
where  Hoosis  Street  is,  and  they  say,  why,  it's  just  beyond 
Whatyoucallit  Avenue,  and  when  you  own  up  to  not 
knowing  where  that  is,  either,  they  look  at  you  like  they 
neither  pitied  nor  hated  you,  but  condescended  to  help 
your  ignorance  with  a  contempt  too  deep  for  words. 

But  after  a  while  we  found  our  way  south  in  spite  of 
directions,  and  started  off  sort  of  sick  about  would  the 
road  be  as  rotten  going  out  as  it  was  coming  in.  And  I  '11 
say  right  now  that  one  of  the  peculiar  things  about  a  long 
trip  is  the-worst-is-yet-to-come  feeling  you  get  about  the 
roads.  You  always  expect  the  next  to  be  like  the  last  one, 
and  it  generally  is,  only  more  so.  But  for  once  this  didn  't 
go,  and  after  half  an  hour  we  found  ourselves  actually 
floating  along  over  a  boulevard  that  wound  around  and 
over  the  prettiest  hills  you  ever  want  to  see — small,  friendly 
hills — one  much  like  another,  covered  thick  with  tame  trees 
and  with  kind-looking  farms  tucked  away  in  unexpected 
places  like  a  Merry  Christmas  card  without  the  snow,  and 
you  sort  of  expected  to  see  a  motto  at  the  foot  of  each 
grade,  but  you  hardly  saw  even  a  billboard,  and  I  sort  of 
missed  them  at  that.  It  was  like  riding  through  the  same 
country  over  and  over  again,  and  I  got  kind  of  drowsy  over 
it  and  took  to  listening  to  a  slap  which  had  come  into  the 
engine.  Next  day  I  noticed  Westman  had  taken  it  out,  but 
he  didn't  show  it  to  me  the  way  they  did  with  my  appendix. 

Well,  anyways,  these  Pennsylvania  hills  was  very  pretty, 
but  just  about  like  a  lot  of  country  I  had  seen  before,  and 
it  was  not  until  we  crossed  the  Susquehanna  on  a  long 
bridge  that  I  felt  we  had  commenced  to  get  into  the  wilds. 
I  don't  really  know  just  why  that  word  "Susquehanna" 
stands  out  so  sharp  in  my  mind;  but  it  does,  and  I  always 


West  Broadway  79 

see  the  vision  of  a  statue  of  General  Sherman  when  I  hear 
it.  Somehow  this  river  looked  the  part.  It  would  make  a 
swell  location  for  a  melo — it  is  so  wild  and  fierce,  full  of 
stones  and  little  shaggy  islands  and  great  gloomy  Xmas 
trees  climbing  up  the  hilly  banks  like  proud  soldiers  in 
retreat.  I  made  the  boys  stop  on  the  far  side  while  I  took 
a  long  look  at  the  melancholy,  wild  grandeur  of  the  river 
raging  down  to  the  Chesapeake.  Gee,  I'd  sure  like  to  play 
a  mountaineer's  daughter  or  something  in  that  location! 
And  it  is  already  historic  in  the  life  of  the  camera,  because 
here  is  where  Jim  committed  his  first  crime  against  the 
art  of  photography — a  new  vice  in  him,  and  one  which 
alas!  grew  worse  as  the  weeks  went  by. 

But  did  he  take  a  picture  of  that  wonderful  river?  He 
did  not !  He  took  one  of  me  and  the  dog  and  Tom  Westman 
sitting  in  the  car. 

"You  got  to  have  people  in  a  picture,"  he  says,  when  I 
complained,  "to  give  it  any  human  interest.  Besides,  the 
river  looks  like  nothing  at  all,  in  the  finder!" 

Well,  we  got  into  the  city  of  Baltimore  late  that  after- 
noon, and  went  to  see  a  show  that  night,  and  I  must  say 
I  was  disappointed  not  finding  the  town  more  shabby  and 
quaint  and  kind  of  run  down  and  everything  like  you  are 
led  to  expect  a  Southern  city  to  be.  It  was  far  from  it, 
being  much  like  a  little  piece  of  upper  New  York — say 
Madison  Avenue  at  Fifty-ninth  Street,  only  bigger  and 
noisier  and  about  as  quaint  as  Wall  Street.  I  and  Jim 
walked  around  for  two  solid  hours  looking  for  the  pictur- 
esque poverty  of  the  ruined  South,  but  to  no  avail.  The 
nearest  approach  to  anything  old-fashioned  we  found  was 
a  cafe  where  we  went  in  the  swellest  taxi  I  had  been  in 
to  date,  we  having  let  Tom  take  the  car,  and  where  we 
had  even  better  sea  food  than  in  Philly,  and  served  in  a 
dining  room  with  a  black-and-white  marble  floor  and  a 
coon  waiter  who  said  thank  you  for  a  four-bit  tip.  I 


8o  West  Broadway 

thought  this  must  be  the  best  food  in  the  world,  because 
I  never  ate  any  so  good  in  a  N.  Y.  cafe,  but  I  didn't  know 
the  half  of  it — nor  learned  as  yet  that  New  York  knows 
less  about  what  is  good  food  than  any  town  in  the  U.  S.  A., 
but  that  is  again  getting  ahead  of  myself.  We  were  to 
eat  and  learn,  as  the  poet  says,  or  maybe  it  was  the  copy 
book — poets  and  eating  don't  seem  quite  right  someways. 

Well,  next  morning  we  went  to  a  big  fancy  grocery — a 
branch  of  the  one  where  we  deal  at  home — and  bought 
'some  chocolate  and  biscuits  and  oranges,  "Because,"  says 
Jim,  ' '  we  are  now  really  starting  West,  and  we  don 't  know 
will  we  be  able  to  buy  them  before  we  come  to  the  desert, 
and  may  need  them." 

Actually!  He  said  it,  and  I  didn't  know  it  was  a  joke, 
and  neither  did  he !  That 's  all  we  knew  about  the  West. 
We  was  always  talking  about  the  desert,  too,  from  the  very 
start.  It  kind  of  hung  over  us  with  desperate  excitement 
— fear  and  joy  well  shaken  up  with  a  little  ice,  if  you  get 
me.  Maybe  it  was  having  the  desert  water  bag  and  never 
knowing  where  to  put  it  when  we  repacked  the  car  kind  of 
kept  it  in  our  minds.  We  often  spoke  of  Indians,  jack 
rabbits  and  prairie  dogs  and  the  Grand  Canyon,  too,  but 
mostly  of  the  desert,  each  trying  to  kid  the  other  into 
believing  it  would  be  a  mere  nothing — but  thereby  confess- 
ing their  own  fear  that  it  would  be  something  fierce.  For 
a  sample,  every  time  we  come  to  a  bad  road  we  would  say, 
"I  guess  this  will  seem  like  nothing  when  we  get  to  the 
desert,"  and  that  was  intended  to  be  cheering. 

Well,  anyways,  we  bought  our  iron  rations,  as  we  called 
them,  at  the  big  grocery  which  made  one  more  thing  to 
carry.  And  then  we  got  down  all  the  bags  and  the  golf 
clubs  and  pillows  and  hatbox  and  so  on,  because  this  being 
our  first  night  out  we  had  no  better  sense  than  to  take  them 
all  up  to  the  room  with  us.  And  when  it  was  all  in  the 
car  we  managed  to  squeeze  ourselves  and  Welcome  into  it 


West  Broadway  81 

as  well,  and  started  on  our  way  again,  taking  the  National 
Old  Trails  road  and  quarreling  violently  among  ourselves 
over  who  was  responsible  for  getting  started  so  late  and 
where  is  that  road  map  and  why  did  the  garage  man  tell  us 
to  take  that  short  cut  and  what  color  bands  to  follow  on 
the  telegraph  poles  and  other  early  morning  courtesies  of 
a  pleasure  trip  by  motor. 

"There,  damit,"  says  Jim  when  we  was  about  thirty 
miles  out  of  town,  "I  forgot  to  get  the  morning  paper!" 

You  would  of  thought  it  was  his  pocketbook.  But  Tom 
Westman  came  to  the  rescue — kind  of. 

"I  got  one  here,"  he  says,  fishing  it  out  from  under  him. 
"It's  not  much  good,  I'm  afraid,  because  I  used  a  piece  to 
clean  off  the  step,  but  here  it  is!  There  wasn't  much  on 
the  part  I  used,  anyways,"  he  says,  and  hands  it  to  me 
and  I  handed  it  back  to  Jim. 

Almost  all  the  front  page  was  gone,  and  Jim  swore  at 
this  and  didn't  speak  again  while  we  rolled  along  through 
a  unfinished-looking  farming  country,  passing  load  after 
load  of  corn  on  the  ear  being  dragged  to  market  by  horses 
— no  flivvers  or  trucks  seemed  to  be  around.  We  didn't 
pass  a  single  farmer  driving  one,  but  lots  of  buggies  and 
heavy  teams. 

And  then  all  at  once,  while  I  was  thinking  where  would 
I  begin  spreading  my  anti-Red  propaganda,  and  why 
hadn't  I  worn  my  other  suit,  and  what  made  me  marry, 
anyway,  and  other  feminine  thoughts,  we  rounded  a  curve 
and  come  onto  what  I  first  took  to  be  a  big  set  for  a  cos- 
tume picture,  but  which  was  actually  the  town  of  Frederick, 
Maryland.  Jim  spotted  it  as  soon  as  I  did,  and  we  stopped 
the  car  to  look  around,  and,  believe  me,  that  little  town  is 
as  beautiful  as  a  dream. 

Nothing  seemed  to  of  been  changed  since  the  Year  One. 
The  main  streets  was  paved  with  cobbles  and  climbed  a 
steep  hill  with  brightly  colored  little  houses  huddling  one 


82  West  Broadway 

above  the  other.  There  was  funny  little  shops  with  small 
windowpanes  and  hound  dogs  lying  lazily  in  the  sun. 
Halfway  up  was  the  place  where  Barbara  Frietchie's  house 
had  been.  We  saw  the  plate — a  sort  of  tombstone  for  the 
building. 

' '  Who  was  Barb  ? ' '  says  Jim.  * '  I  think  I  heard  of  her, ' ' 
he  says. 

"Didn't  she  invent  the  American  flag?"  I  says. 

"No,  she  didn't,"  says  Westman.  "Don't  you  know 
the  poem  about  who  harms  a  hair  on  yon  gray  head?" 

"Dies  like  a  dog!  March  on,  he  said!"  says  Jim  and 
I  together,  and  then  we  laughed  and  marched  on — back  to 
the  bus  after  I  had  snapped  Jim  standing  by  the  cross 
what  marked  the  spot.  And  then  Jim  drove  for  a  change, 
and  we  kept  on  endlessly  sliding  over  perfect  roads  and 
wooded  hills. 

I'll  say  the  main  roads  of  Maryland  are  something  to 
dream  about.  I  had  never  seen  anything  so  perfect.  The 
one  we  was  on  lay  like  a  black  satin  ribbon  over  hill  and 
dale — such  steep  hills  and  such  brief  dales  that  it  was  like 
the  Coney  Island  roller  coaster.  It  was  like  flying,  and 
with  no  traffic  cops  and  apparently  no  speed  limit  Jim  just 
stepped  on  her,  coasting  down  one  grade  at  sixty  miles  a 
hour  and  halfway  up  the  next  before  he  had  to  go  into 
gear.  It  was  a  regular  game,  and  I  soon  seen  I  had  brought 
the  wrong  kind  of  hat  for  that  wind,  because  it  kept  getting 
tore  off  my  head  and  ruining  my  hair  net.  By  the  time 
we  had  shot  through  Hagerstown,  a  place  noticeable  for  the 
fact  that  I  saw  a  hat  there  exactly  like  what  I  had  on 
and  had  bought  on  Broadway  and  Forty-seventh  Street, 
N.  Y.  C.,  which  was  particularly  snappy  and,  I  had  sup- 
posed, exclusive. 

Well,  after  this  the  hills  began  getting  higher  and  higher, 
and  finally  we  come  to  one  which  I  thought  we  would 
never  get  to  the  top  of  it,  but  we  did,  with  a  boiling 


West  Broadway  83 

radiator,  and  stopped  at  a  place  marked  "Summit,"  after 
Summit,  N.  J.,  I  guess.  It  wasn't  a  town,  though,  but 
only  the  top  of  a  mountain,  with  a  view  which  would  of 
been  wonderful,  only  you  couldn  't  see  it  because  it  was  by 
now  commencing  to  rain. 

Just  the  same,  we  all  got  out  while  the  radiator  cooled 
off  and  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  view  which  was  full  of 
fog  and  wet  pine  trees  further  down  below  than  you  would 
of  believed  possible — a  real  neat,  made-to-order,  picture- 
book  mountain  landscape,  it  was. 

Several  other  cars  had  developed  asthma  or  appendicitis 
or  high  blood  pressure  on  the  way  up,  and  so  we  had  to 
share  the  parking  space  and  view.  There  was  three  motor- 
cycles with  side-car  wives  all  from  the  same  place — Jack- 
sonville, Florida,  it  was — and,  believe  me,  you  can't  tell 
me  the  South  is  slow  after  that,  because  these  folks  was 
neither  toughs  nor  sports  nor  yet  idle  rich,  but  perfectly 
good  members  of  the  middle-aged  middle  classes,  and  it 
astonished  and  fascinated  me  to  see  them.  It  seemed  to  me 
there  must  be  a  mistake  some  place.  I  was  dying  to  ask 
where  they  were  going  in  khaki  bloomers  at  their  time  of 
life,  but  didn't  dare,  and  was  kind  of  floored  to  think 
they  had  got  that  far. 

Up  to  now  we  had  been  the  only  tourists  we  had  met — 
we'd  had  the  transcontinental  trip  to  ourselves — and  it 
give  me  an  awful  queer,  not  altogether  gracious  feeling 
to  meet  up  with  this  bunch. 

There  was  a  cheap  little  Climber  roadster  coughing  and 
panting  on  the  resting  park,  and  across  its  shabby  back 
was  written  in  chalk  "Connecticut  to  California,"  and 
the  owners  was  standing  enjoying  the  place  where  the 
view  was  on  fine  days,  all  dressed  like  a  field  army.  They 
was  a  couple  of  fellows  who  might  of  been  mechanics. 
And  then  there  were  the  Peterkins.  Of  course,  I  didn't 
know  right  off  it  was  them — that  come  later.  But  never 


84  West  Broadway 

will  I  forget  my  first  seeing  that  family.  There  was  eight 
of  them,  and  on  my  word  of  honor  as  a  actress,  they  was 
traveling  in  a  fliv! 

There  was  pa  to  commence  with — a  big,  fat  man  almost 
bursting  out  of  his  khaki  overalls — and  ma,  a  smiling  little 
fatty  with  a  three-year-old  in  her  arms.  Then  there  was 
a  real  pretty  girl  of  maybe  nineteen,  the  oldest  daughter. 
Next  come  Grandma  Peterkin,  with  no  teeth  except  at 
meal  times;  Aunt  Susie,  who  might  of  been  ma's  useful 
old-maid  sister;  and  two  medium-sized  youngsters,  a  boy 
and  a  girl. 

There  was  a  spring  and  mattress  fastened  above  the 
spares  on  the  back  of  their  boat,  and  hanging  below  that 
was  a  bucket,  ax,  two  water  bags  and  a  tow  rope.  Both 
running  boards  was  shut  in  with  a  sort  of  wicket  gates 
like  they  use  on  elevators  between  floors,  and  the  space 
between  them  and  the  actual  car  was  packed  to  the  extreme 
limit  with  bags  and  bundles  of  every  kind,  and  from  the 
ceiling,  or  framework  of  the  top,  hung  paper  hat  bags, 
mysterious-looking  packages  and  different  odds  and  ends, 
while  both  front  mud  guards  was  simply  stuffed  with  tent 
poles  and  canvas.  The  car  had  a  New  Jersey  license. 

But  they  was  not  gypsies;  they  was  American  whites, 
and  under  their  sunburn  and  blowzyness  real  decent  look- 
ing— the  girl  in  particular,  whose  glorious  hair  blew  about 
her  face  like  wisps  of  sunshine  and  whose  eyes  seemed  to 
be  laughing  at  the  rain. 

But  they  were  a  queer-looking  bunch — the  first  of  the 
kind  we  had  met,  and  I  thought  ain't  that  the  absolute 
limit  to  let  yourself  get  all  untidy  that  way  and  wear 
bum  clothes  and  not  care  how  you  look  or  wash  the  car 
or  anything,  and  I  didn't  see  how  they  could  do  it,  and 
decided  I  would  never  let  myself  go  like  them — no,  not  on 
ten  thousand  trips! 


West  Broadway  85 


Well,  by  that  time  the  car  was  cool  enough,  and  so  we 
got  in,  very  superior  because  it  was  a  Colby-Droit,  and 
slid  down  to  Cumberland  for  luncheon. 

Slid  into  was  more  nearly  right,  because  the  grades 
was  by  now  not  only  slippery  but  far  steeper,  and  some 
cheerful  goof  had  painted  little  mottoes  of  encouragement 
on  all  the  bad  turns  where  there  wras  a  cliff  or  a  big 
bowlder.  "Prepare  to  meet  thy  God"  was  at  the  top 
as  a  general  thing,  and  ' '  Where  will  you  spend  eternity  ? ' ' 
at  the  bottom.  And,  believe  me,  they  was  all  too  nearly 
appropriate  to  be  comforting! 

"Say,  these  must  be  mountains,"  I  says  at  last.  "They 
are  too  big  to  be  hills." 

"Part  of  the  Alleghanies, "  says  Westman,  going  into 
low  and  narrowly  missing  an,  oncoming  truck.  "The 
Cumberland  Mountains. ' ' 

"You  know  a  lot  about  your  country,"  I  says.  "More 
than  I  could  of  told." 

"I  read  a  lot  when  I  first  come  over,"  he  says. 

"When  you  first  came  over?"  I  says.    "Where  from?" 

"Russia,"  he  says.  "Didn't  you  know?  I  was  ten 
years  old  before  we  come  to  this  country." 

"But  the  name  of  Westman?"  I  begun. 

"We  took  it,"  he  says.  "Gee,  but  this  clutch  is  slip- 
ping! I'll  have  to  put  some  fuller's  earth  in  at  Cumber- 
land. As  I  was  saying,  our  real  name  is  too  hard  to 
pronounce  over  here — Miscoijskojki — how's  that?" 

"  It 's  fierce ! "  I  says.    ' '  Are  you  a  citizen,  Tom  ? ' ' 

"First  papers  only,"  he  says.  "That's  how  I  come  to 
be  in  the  Red  Cross  instead  of  going  to  France.  I'm 
twenty-one  last  month." 

Well,  this  give  me  quite  a  lot  to  think  over — so  much 
so  that  I  hardly  paid  any  attention  to  Cumberland  City 
with  its  smart  hotel  and  bright  streets  or  to  Jim's  state- 
ment about  the  tires  they  make  there.  It  was  still  on  my 


86  West  Broadway 

mind  as  we  went  shooting  out  of  town  over  more  and  even 
higher  mountains,  back  into  Pennsylvania,  where  the  lovely 
hillsides  was  all  blacked  by  the  smoke  from  coke  burning 
and  the  trees  poisoned  and  stark,  and  everything  dying 
and  blackened  wherever  the  wind  carried  the  fumes,  and 
it  wasn  't  until  we  descended  into  Uniontown  that  I  got  my 
poise  again,  what  with  piecing  facts  about  Karl  Westman 
and  his  doctrines  together. 

And  I  don  't  know  that  the  whole  country  which  we  had 
gone  through  since  lunch  helped  me  any — a  land  of  sub- 
terraneum  dungeons,  of  fair  hills  with  black  holes  in  them, 
and  men  with  blackened  faces  and  little  lamps  on  the 
front  of  their  hats,  of  grim  women  fighting  to  make  homes 
amidst  the  filtering  soot.  So  this,  I  thought,  is  the  coal 
country,  where  the  miners  live  and  we  get  sore  at  them 
when  they  strike.  But  look  at  where  they  live  and  what 
is  around  them  all  the  time!  Only  a  poet  could  keep 
the  vision  of  the  industrial  prowess  of  the  country — of  the 
steel  hearths  and  of  the  home  fires,  as  things  which  must 
be  kept  burning, — before  his  eyes  in  this  place. 

I  wanted  to  stop  and  get  out  and  talk  to  these  fellows. 
I  wanted  to  tell  them  about  those  great  wonderful  factories 
back  in  Jersey  that  I  had  just  seen  only  yesterday,  and 
how  they,  the  miners,  was  the  men  behind  them,  and  that 
they  must  do  their  share  in  our  big  one-for-all-and-all-for- 
one  job  of  making  America.  But  I  didn't  dare.  They 
scared  me,  they  looked  so  powerful,  so  sullen  and  so — 
dirty!  Besides,  it  was  raining  harder  than  ever.  And 
also  I  was  tired.  It  takes  time  to  get  used  to  these  long 
rides.  And  then  just  when  I  got  to  the  point  where  I 
felt  I  couldn't  go  even  one  step  further,  and  we  were  still 
almost  fifty  miles  from  Wheeling,  the  car  give  a  snort, 
snuggled  down  at  the  roadside  and  died.  And  just  as  she 
done  so  another  car  containing  three  men  with  guns  drew 
up  beside  us  and  gave  us  a  hail. 


VI 

IN  the  rapidly  gathering  twilight  one  of  the  men  in 
the  strange  car  leaned  forward  over  the  barrel  of  his  gun 
— a  fierce-looking  bandit  he  was — and  spoke  to  Jim.    My 
heart  nearly  stopped. 

"How  far  to  Uniontown?"  he  says.  "We  been  out 
hunting,  and  I  guess  we  lost  our  way." 

Well,  can  you  imagine  the  relief  of  that?  I'll  say  you 
can't!  So  we  told  them  how  far,  and  the  mighty  hunters 
went  on  their  way,  leaving  me  rejoicing  that  they  were 
not  revolutionists  or  something,  because  by  that  time  I 
was  tired  enough  to  imagine  any  nonsense. 

And  then  both  the  boys  got  out  and  commenced  to  look 
under  the  hood  at  what  was  the  matter  with  the  car,  but 
couldn't  find  it,  while  tourists — happy  tourists  with  noth- 
ing the  matter  with  them  or  their  autos — scooted  by  us 
in  the  dusk.  Even  the  three  side-car  cycles  from  Jackson- 
ville went  by  us,  and  the  two  boys  from  Connecticut,  and 
these  last  yelled  could  they  help,  but  we  yelled  no  thank 
you,  and  so  there  we  stayed,  proud  but  stuck,  and  the  rain 
getting  heavier  all  the  time.  I  begun  to  realize  what  a 
wicked  woman  I  was  ever  to  of  left  my  home  and  baby, 
and  then  when  the  boys  had  pretty  near  give  it  up  I  looked 
at  the  speedometer  and  seen  we  had  run  over  two  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  that  day. 

"Say,  you  wise  birds,"  I  called  out,  "when  did  you 
fill  the  tank  last  time?" 

"Why,  nonsense,"  says  Jim  instead  of  answering  me, 
but  speaking  to  his  conscience  instead — "why,  nonsense! 
It  was  filled  only  this  morning." 
87 


88  West  Broadway 

"But  we  don't  generally  run  over  two  hundred  miles 
since  morning!"  I  wailed.  "I  bet  we  haven't  got  a  drop 
of  gas!" 

But  they  didn't  put  up  a  cent  on  it,  and  a  good  thing, 
too,  because  that's  just  exactly  what  them  two  experienced 
motorists  had  let  happen,  and  maybe  I  didn't  rub  it  in 
about  old  Mr.  Boyd  having  told  me  always  to  carry  a 
five-gallon  can — oh,  no!  And  now  didn't  they  wish  they 
had  listened  to  me  in  the  first  place,  and  so  forth  and  ect. 
with  true  wifely  helpfulness! 

Well,  they  had  no  comeback  to  that,  but  Tom  Bygoshski, 
or  whatever  his  real  name  was,  turned  out  to  be  a  good 
sport  and  not  ashamed  to  be  ashamed — if  you  get  me. 

"Well,"  says  he,  "I'll  go  back  with  the  next  feller  that 
passes  to  Uniontown  for  gas,"  he  says,  "and  hop  a  ride 
back." 

Well,  he  did  that,  and  meanwhile  I  and  Jim  sat  in  the 
car  in  a  silence  which  fell  upon  us  as  soon  as  we  had  called 
each  other  all  the  names  we  could  think  of,  and  it's  the 
truth  that  by  five  o'clock  each  night  all  the  way  out  we 
was  generally  not  speaking,  but  at  five  A.M.  next  day  we 
was  so.  Well,  anyways,  we  sat  there  for  what  seemed 
like  hours  while  Tom  went  away  in  a  side  car  and  finally 
come  back  with  the  juice  in  a  five-gallon  can  and  a  chari- 
table flivver.  By  that  time  I  ached  in  every  bone,  both  in 
my  body  and  in  my  head,  and  my  temper  was  badly  bent. 
Why  anybody  ever  wanted  to  do  such  a  crazy  thing  as 
drive  to  California  was  more  than  I  could  see  with  a  peri- 
scope, and  I  expressed  my  opinion  pretty  free — opinions 
being  the  only  things  which  can  be  expressed  free  nowa- 
days. But  they  put  the  five  gallons  in  the  tank  and  we 
slid  along,  hoping  to  pretty  soon  come  to  a  town  where 
a  gas  station  was,  but  the  further  we  drove  the  further  off 
the  town — any  town — seemed  to  be.  I  actually  got  an 
idea  it  was  moving  away  from  us  on  purpose. 


West  Broadway  89 

"The  map  says  forty -five  miles,"  says  Jim,  "but  there 
must  be  something  wrong — we  must  of  gone  fifty  by  now ! ' ' 

"Forty,  by  the  speedo,"  says  Tom,  cheerful  as  a  duck 
in  the  rain. 

"Well,  111  bet  we  been  fifty  just  the  same  I"  snaps  Jim. 
"That  speedometer  is  no  good  anyways!" 

"Well,  we  crept  on  and  on,  and  still  ho  town,  and  by 
now  it  was  absolutely  dark,  and  what  with  wondering  had 
we  taken  the  wrong  turning  and  would  the  gas  hold  out, 
we  were  certainly  having  a  pleasure  trip — I  '11  say  we  were 
not! 

"We'll  have  to  keep  on  to  Wheeling,"  says  Jim,  "be- 
cause we  got  rooms  engaged  there.  I'd  a  whole  lot  rather 
keep  on  and  get  in  late  to  a  good  hotel  than  take  a  chance 
on  a  place  we  don't  know  about,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  if  the  rest  don't!"  I  says,  trying 
to  be  a  sport,  but  willing  they  should  draw  any  conclusions 
they  wanted  from  that  remark.  And  then  at  last  we  see 
a  town  ahead!  Such  a  beautiful  town  with  lights  and 
houses  and  everything!  I  admit  that  the  next  morning 
the  buildings  seemed  to  me  to  be  not  quite  so  lovely  as  I 
had  at  first  thought,  but  coming  into  Washington,  Penn., 
at  nine-thirty  and  as  yet  no  dinner — well,  in  my  eyes  the 
grandeur  that  was  Rome  had  nothing  on  it! 

Because  we  stayed.  I'll  say  we  did.  When  we  had  got 
gas  our  lights  give  out  halfway  across  the  railroad  tracks, 
and  with  a  sigh  of  relief  we  give  up  being  good  sports 
and  decided  the  management  at  the  Wheeling  hotel  would 
have  to  bear  the  disappointment  the  best  way  they  could. 
I  personally  myself  would  of  gladly  slept  in  the  car  if 
permitted.  But  I  didn't.  I  slept  on  the  crease  in  a 
davenport  sofa  in  a  rooming  house  right  over  the  nice 
choo-choo  trains,  because,  believe  me,  it  had  rained  not 
alone  the  gentle  stuff  from  heaven  as  the  poet  says,  but 
tourists  from  all  over  creation  as  well,  who  had  the  same 


90  West  Broadway 

bright  original  idea  of  staying  right  where  they  was  for 
the  night  instead  of  going  on,  on  account  of  the  wet,  but 
had  decided  it  several  hours  earlier  than  we  did. 

Just  the  same,  I  wasn't  really  sorry,  but  ate  a  T-bone 
steak  at  a  hashery  just  like  the  old  days  on  the  Small 
Time  when  Jim  and  I  was  dancing  for  a  bare  living,  and 
also  it  give  me  some  interesting  dope  on  where  some  of 
the  new  wealth  in  the  country  has  come  from.  I  found  it 
out  next  morning  when  we  paid  three-fifty  for  the  accom- 
modations which  in  the  old  days  would  of  been  worth  fifty 
cents  a  head. 

"I  make  a  pretty  fair  living,"  says  the  landlady,  "since 
the  tourists  started  coming  through  last  year.  My  beds 
ain't  been  vacant  more  than  a  night  a  week  since  last 
April.  I  was  pretty  near  at  my  wits'  end  before  that. 
And  now  I  don't  need  to  worry.  I  certainly  do  appreciate 
the  man  who  invented  touring  cars!" 

And  I'll  say  the  old  lady  has  sisters  in  every  state! 
Which  was  the  most  important  thing  about  that  Eown 
excepting  that  the  jars  my  and  other  cold  cream  comes 
in  are  made  there.  Ain't  it  remarkable  the  things  this 
country  produces? 

Well,  when  we  left  there  I  was  still  looking  for  my  hick 
town.  Because  in  the  ones  I  had  seen  so  far  there  was 
the  very  same  goggles  for  sale  that  I  had  got  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  drug  stores  which  put  the  one  where  I  had 
got  my  first-aid  stuff  to  shame.  But  I,  of  course,  realized 
we  was  still  pretty  far  East  and  sort  of  unconsciously 
hoped  for  the  worst. 

Well,  it  was  still  drizzling  rain  when  we  started  out  at 
about  the  same  time  as  not  more  than  fifty  other  tourists, 
all  apparently  going  the  same  way  and  most  of  them 
with  banners  and  California  or  Bust  or  some  such  motto, 
and  mostly  in  khaki  and  looking  like  a  bunch  of  bums  that 
enjoyed  it,  and  I  didn't  see  how  they  could  let  themselves 


West  Broadway  91 

go  that  way,  especially  if  women,  because  I  had  not  got 
to  feel  that  way  as  yet  myself. 

But  the  weather  being  so  bad,  I  decided  to  put  away  my 
hat,  which  I  did,  and  tied  up  my  head  in  a  veil,  and  the 
hat  was  never  the  same  again,  because  Jim  didn't  notice 
when  Welcome  went  to  sleep  on  it  in  the  tonneau. 

"I  told  you  we  was  starting  too  late  in  the  year,"  Jim 
kept  muttering  all  morning.  "We'll  hit  the  California 
desert  just  in  the  rainy  season — you'll  see!  Good  night!" 

Well,  I  didn't  come  back  at  him,  because  we  was  on 
our  way  and  what  was  the  use  ?  And  besides  that,  the  sun 
come  out  every  once  in  a  while  and  we  would  put  the  top 
down  because  we  wanted  to  be  hardy  guys,  and  then  it 
would  commence  raining  again  and  we  would  put  it  back. 

By  this  time  I  had  come  to  realize  that  there  was  nothing 
peculiar  about  the  fellow  and  sister  tourists  that  I  had 
at  first  taken  for  strange  specimens.  Every  mile  we  went 
we  met  more  of  the  same  kind — cars  hung  with  junk, 
crowded  with  everybody  and  their  dog  and  most  of  'em 
camping  along  the  way  and  seeming  to  enjoy  it.  We  had 
all  of  a  sudden  come  upon  them  in  bunches  just  as  if 
when  we  left  the  shore  road  for  the  National  we  had  turned 
out  of  a  quiet  street  into  a  busy  avenue  and  joined  the 
California  Pilgrims,  which  are  a  kind  of  modern  Canter- 
bury Pilgrims. 

I  seen  a  set  of  post  cards  of  these  Canterbury  Pilgrims 
one  time,  and  it  seems  Canterbury  was  in  England,  and 
going  there  had  religion  at  the  bottom  of  it,  only  you 
would  hardly  notice  it,  they  had  such  a  gay  time,  meeting 
up  with  each  other  and  stopping  at  the  same  hotels  or 
camps  and  exchanging  the  latest  prohibition  and  flivver 
stories,  and  maybe  getting  to  be  such  good  friends  that 
they  slipped  each  other  a  little  nip  off  the  hip  and  told 
how  they  got  stuck  in  the  mud  near  London  and  how  the 
landlord  at  Ye  Boars  Hedd  Inn  stuck  you  five  berries  for 


92  West  Broadway 

a  room  without  a  bath,  and  how  gas  was  sixty  cents  on 
the  Oxford  road  and  how  they  was  obliged  to  travel  all 
Saturday  night  on  account  of  ye  highwaymen,  and  so  was 
two  weeks  without  a  bath  and  so  forth  and  ect.  But 
enjoying  it  all,  including  their  troubles — after  they  was 
over,  at  least. 

Well,  such  was  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims,  who  was  the 
fathers  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  I  guess.  But  a  few 
generations  make  a  lot  of  difference,  and  we  have  grown 
a  good  ways  beyond  Plymouth  Rock — I'll  say  we  have! 
Several  miles!  And  the  California  Pilgrims  was  again  a 
friendly  people.  First  thing  I  knew  we  was  waving  to 
some  of  the  ones  we  had  passed,  or  which  had  passed  us 
yesterday,  or  been  at  the  same  restaurants  or  something, 
like  they  was  old  friends. 

Just  outside  of  Wheeling  there  was  an  awful  stretch 
of  wet  clay  road,  and  Tom  was  driving  real  well,  but 
skidding  because  of  being  too  proud  to  put  on  the  chains, 
when  we  skedaddled  backward  a  little  and  bumped  some- 
one that  was  trying  to  pass  us,  the  fresh  nut,  and  a  regular 
chorus  set  up,  and  there  was  the  Peterkins  family  fliv, 
which  had  thrown  a  loving  front  wheel  around  our  hind 
one. 

"Hey!  Who's  road  do  yer  think  this  is?"  says  Pa 
Peterkin. 

"Why  don't  you  look  where  you're  going?"  says  Jim. 
"Back  up,  can't  you?" 

"My  engine  is  willing,  but  my  wheels  is  sleek,"  says  Pa 
with  a  grin.  "Go  on  ahead  yourself." 

Well,  by  that  time  about  twenty  cars  of  every  denom- 
ination had  appeared  from  nowheres  and  started  giving 
advice  at  the  same  time  we  started  our  engine.  But  we 
had  to  stop  again  and  stop  quick  or  we  would  all  of  been 
over  the  bank. 


West  Broadway  93 

"This  mud  shimmies  too  fast,"  says  Jim.  "We  got  to 
get  out  and  lift  her  over,  that's  all!" 

And  that  is  what  they  did — just  got  out  and  lifted  the 
flivver  out  of  the  way — Pa  Peterkin,  Jim  and  principally 
Tom.  Anyways,  I  think  Tom  principally  did,  because 
when  he  come  back  there  was  a  marigold  missing  off  the 
front  of  the  oldest  Peterkin  daughter 's  dress  and  one  grow- 
ing in  his  buttonhole. 

There  was  one  big  stiff  in  a  golf  suit  and  a  new  Colby- 
Droit — a  newer  one  than  ours — who  had  stood  around 
most  helpfully  while  the  other  boys  was  working,  and 
when  it  was  over  seemed  to  think  he  had  done  it  all.  He 
spoke  to  me  as  he  waded  back  to  his  bus  sort  of  as  if  he 
and  us  was  the  only  speaking-terms  people  in  the  bunch 
on  account  of  our  mutual  car,  if  you  get  me. 

"That's  the  way  to  do  it,  eh?"  he  says.  "I  could  have 
told  them  to  lift  it  in  the  first  place." 

And  then  the  blockade  was  broken  up  and  we  all  started 
off  again. 

' '  They  are  going  to  the  coast  too, ' '  says  Tom  as  the 
Peterkins  passed  us.  "He's  a  merchant  on  a  much-needed 
vacation. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  thought  she  was  a  mighty  snappy  doll  myself," 
I  came  back  at  him. 

"Well,  he  didn't  reply  to  that,  but  stepped  on  the  bus 
and  off  we  flew,  leaving  the  calico  sunbonnets  of  Maryland 
and  Western  Pennsylvania  behind,  and  skimming  over 
more  wet  mountains,  all  with  them  terrible  religious  signs 
on  them,  only  now  somebody  had  also  painted  "Boner  for 
Coroner"  on  the  bad  curves  as  well,  and  finally  come 
dashing  into  Wheeling.  That  kid  sure  drove  fast ! 

"Go  slow  and  see  our  city — go  fast  and  see  our  jail, 
Tom,"  I  says,  and  he  slowed  up. 

I  could  control  him  a  little,  but  not  much,  and  he  did 
quiet  down  enough  to  let  us  grab  a  few  sandwiches  to  take 


94  West  Broadway 

along  from  a  pretty  little  hotel  near  a  river,  and  then 
we  crossed  the  river. 

Having  dashed  through  fifty  miles  of  West  Virginia — 
and  I  was  glad,  of  course,  to  get  this  glimpse  of  the  dear 
old  South — we  horned  into  Ohio  and  at  last  I  felt  we  was 
really  on  our  way  West;  only,  also,  as  if  I  had  been  on  it 
three  weeks  instead  of  three  days. 

Then  Jim  took  the  wheel,  and  naturally,  he  being  my 
husband,  I  had  no  influence  over  him  at  all,  and  he  drove 
so  I  thought  we  would  be  killed  any  minute. 

"Aw,  shut  up  or  drive  yourself!"  he  says  finally,  and 
of  course  I  had  no  intention  of  driving  down  them  terrible 
grades  in  wet  weather,  and  so  I  shut  up,  except  for 
begging  him  to  go  into  low  going  down  hill,  which  he 
wouldn't  do  because  he  never  had  to  before,  and  shrieking 
at  him  to  please  stay  next  to  the  cliff  and  to  blow  the  horn 
when  we  come  to  a  curve;  and,  believe  me,  I  mentally 
drove  every  inch  of  the  road  with  him  at  sixty  miles  an 
hour  from  Zanesville  to  Columbus,  especially  when  he 
nearly  sideswiped  a  big  Munson  which  darted  around  a 
curve  and  tried  to  bite  us.  And  to  this  day  I  believe  it 
was  Jim's  fault. 

"Why,  you  let  that  kid  drive  anyway  he  wants  to  with- 
out letting  out  a  yip ! ' '  says  Jim  peevishly  after  this 
escape.  "And  yet  you  pick  on  me  unless  I  drive  like  I 
was  going  to  a  funeral." 

' '  Going  to  a  funeral  will  be  right  unless  you  go  slow  on 
these  grades,"  I  says,  and  then  we  was  in  low  but  out  of 
speaking  for  a  while. 

And  now,  I  thought,  we  are  getting  to  the  farm  country, 
the  beginning  of  the  great  agricultural  belt  where  the 
hicks  are,  where  the  crops  of  corn  and  chin  whiskers  are 
to  be  found,  and  so  I  started  in  to  look  for  them.  I  may 
as  well  add  sooner  or  later  that  I  am  looking  yet.  I  saw 


West  Broadway  95 

the  cultural  part  of  agriculture — but  hicks?  Gone  are 
the  hicks!  All  gone!  But  there  was  lots  of  pigs. 

I  can't,  since  driving  past  Ohio,  see  why  bacon  is  so 
dear.  I'll  bet  that  between  Wheeling  and  Columbus  I 
personally  myself  saw  over  one  million  pigs.  Not  in  styes, 
but  running  around  in  ten-acre  lots. 

I  never  was  so  well  acquainted  with  pigs  before.  I 
would  not  of  thought  that  there  was  room  in  the  entire 
U.  S.  A.  for  the  number  of  pigs  I  seen  in  Ohio  alone. 
Also  we  come  by  field  after  field  of  bright  green  stuff  that 
they  eat,  and  this  was  the  first  time  I  knew  that  alfalfa 
wasn't  a  college  fraternity.  There  seemed  to  be  no  end 
to  the  fields  of  pigs  and  clover  and  farm-houses  and  cows ! 
Oh,  my  mother,  how  many  cows  I  seen! 

Finally  it  commenced  at  last  to  dawn  on  me  that  this 
was  a  great  country — a  wonderful  country  where  there 
was  no  horns  on  the  cows,  but  where  they  grew  their  own 
barbed-wire  fences  out  of  a  stuff  called  osage  orange. 
God  made  this  land  and  made  it  for  farming.  What  is 
more,  He  divided  it  up  awful  even.  Why,  a  mere  hick 
from  the  city  like  myself  couldn't  help  but  notice  how 
nearly  of  the  one  size  them  Ohio  farms  was — enormous 
compared  to  the  East,  but  size  and  size  alike;  and  the 
houses  on  them  the  same — good  substantial  houses  set  in 
shade  trees  and  one  no  bigger  than  the  other.  I  couldn't 
see,  myself  personally,  how  a  soviet  could  divide  them  any 
better,  and  I  wondered  how  Mr.  Karl  Westman  intended 
going  to  work  out  here.  I  wondered  if  he  had  ever  even 
seen  the  place  and  had  any  idea  what  he  was  up  against, 
because  where  everybody  has  a  good  house  and  lot,  what 
are  you  going  to  offer  to  make  them  give  'em  up?  And 
in  the  whole  time  I  was  traveling  through  this  part  of 
the  country,  meaning  from  Ohio  to  Kansas,  it 's  the  honest 
truth  I  didn't  see  but  two  farms  that  was  for  sale. 

And  here's  another  thing:  We  practically  never  seen  a 


96  West  Broadway 

farm  without  at  least  one  car  parked  in  the  yard.  I  '11  tell 
the  world  that  from  Zanesville  on  there  begun  to  creep 
over  me  a  kind  of  secondhand  pride  in  these  farms  that  I 
can't  explain  exactly,  but  which  I  felt  all  right,  all  right; 
and  I  begun  to  get  a  little  realization  of  the  fact  that  this 
is  a  mighty  big  country,  a  thing  I  have  many  times  said 
at  Liberty  Bond  drives  without  knowing  what  I  was 
talking  about,  but  now  began  to  see  for  myself  that  it  was 
so  darn  big  that  I  would  have  to  grow  some  to  be  equal 
to  the  responsibility  of  belonging  to  it  in  the  right  way. 
Say,  here  we  had  been  traveling  steady  for  days,  and  when 
I  looked  at  the  map  I  give  a  gasp,  because  I  see  that  we 
wasn't  even  started! 

Well,  the  farms  I  had  been  sort  of  prepared  for,  but  the 
cities  I  was  not.  There  are  no  towns  west  of  the  Alle- 
ghanies.  They  are  all  cities.  And  if  they  don't  always 
have  a  city  population  to  start  with,  why,  they  take  no 
chance  about  what  may  happen  in  the  future  and  start 
right  in  to  have  all  the  fixings,  pavings,  artistic  street 
lights  that  would  put  your  eye  out — five  lights  to  a  post 
often ;  a  bank,  at  least  one  hotel,  and  shops  like  Broadway ! 

At  first  I  just  simply  didn't  get  it,  and  waited  for  the 
next  one  to  be  a  jay  village.  But  it  didn't  come  along. 
I  saw  cootie  coops  and  spit  curls  on  the  chickens  which 
had  come  in  off  the  farms  in  all  four  states,  and  heard  the 
latest  jazz  on  the  drug-store  records.  "But  wait,"  I  says 
to  myself,  "this  can't  keep  up.  Pretty  soon  now  we  will 
hit  the  haystacks."  But  by  night,  when  we  hit  the  hay 
of  a  standardized  mattress  in  a  standardized  hotel  which 
might  as  well  of  been  the  Biltmore  for  all  you  could  tell 
the  difference  in  Columbus,  Ohio,  the  simple  little  vil- 
lage had  not  yet  walked  onto  the  part  of  the  map  we  was 
traveling  across. 

Anybody  would  expect  Columbus  to  be  a  big  city  and  a 
live  one,  but  you  don't  realize  until  you  go  out  there  it 


West  Broadway  97 

has  kittens  all  over  the  state.  And  this  went  for  the  next 
day's  travel,  too,  when  we  hiked  along  through  farms  and 
farms  and  pigs  and  Springfield,  and  then  suddenly  no 
Springfield,  but  just  pigs  and  pigs  and  pigs  and  farms, 
and  got  diverted  off  the  main  route  into  Dayton  by  a  flood* 

The  rain  had  by  now  all  cleared  out  of  the  sky,  but  it 
hadn't  left  us  by  any  means.  It  was  right  with  us  on  the 
floor  of  Ohio  and  nobody  wHo  hasn't  sloughed  through  it 
in  an  underslung  car  can  appreciate  the  emotions  you  get 
by  wading  through  Ohio.  We  had  all  unknowingly  kissed 
paved  highways  good-by  for  a  long  time  at  dear  old  Chris- 
topher's home  city,  and  most  of  the  bridges  ahead  of  us 
had  heard  we  was  coming  and  left  before  we  got  there.  It 
seems  it  had  been  raining  for  a  month  in  these  here  parts, 
and  parts  was  all  that  was  left  for  us  to  see,  and  only 
the  parts  that  was  floating  at  that.  In  our  ignorance  we 
thought  it  was  real  mud  we  was  going  through,  but  that 
was,  as  the  map  shows,  before  we  got  to  Illinois. 

Well,  anyways,  I  didn  't  mind  the  detours  much,  because 
we  seen  the  back  country  that  way,  whether  we  wanted  to 
spare  the  time  or  not.  But  my  good  nature  made  no  im- 
pression on  Jim.  Having  nothing  else  to  pick  on  me  for,  he 
tried  to  start  something  because  of  my  not  complaining. 

"Say,  you're  a  funny  bird!"  he  says.  "If  I  was  to 
take  you  on  five  miles  of  road  like  this  back  home  you  would 
throw  a  fit,  and  here  you  stand  fifty  of  it  without  letting 
out  a  yell!" 

Well,  what  was  the  use  explaining  that  there  was  no 
object  in  trying  out  back  roads  at  home,  whereas  there 
was  a  big  Purpose  behind  this  trip,  and  every  bit  of  road 
was  a  link  in  the  chain,  as  the  poet  says  ?  He  wouldn  't  of 
understood  my  emotion,  but  only  passed  remarks  on  the 
pancakes  I  had  eat  for  breakfast,  which  is  his  idea  of  what 
makes  a  person  soulful. 

Well,  anyways,  we  went  through  the  smiling  city  of  Day- 


98  West  Broadway 

ton,  and  aeroplane  factories  have  a  more  uplifting  effect 
on  a  city  than  other  industries,  and — no  kidding  intended 
— the  town  does  look  that  way.  It 's  a  beauty !  And  pretty 
soon  it  was  lunchtime,  and  we  was  in  Richmond,  Indiana, 
and  I  seen  an  Indian  doll  in  a  window,  and  so  we  got  out 
And  I  sent  the  doll  to  Junior  from  the  wild  and  woolly 
West,  which  wildness  had  so  far  consisted  of  smart  little 
Main  Streets  full  of  snappy  shops  with  plate-glass  win- 
dows and  at  Richmond  actually  another  hat  like  mine  in 
the  lace-trimmed  milliner's  window. 

I  don't  know  did  anything  on  the  whole  trip  impress 
me  deeper  than  finding  that  ultra-smart  model  all  along 
the  line.  It  might  not  at  first  seem  to  be  important;  but 
when  you  look  behind  the  hat  and  the  fact  that  Jim 
«ould  of  bought  his  favorite  collar  or  gloves  in  pretty  near 
any  town — I  mean  city  let — we  went  through  you  can  begin, 
if  you  let  your  bean  work,  to  get  some  notion  of  the  breadth 
of  our  civilization.  And  seeing  them  little  things  impressed 
me  more  with  our  high  standard  of  living  than  any  amount 
of  Board  of  Trade  statistics. 

Another  thing  which  struck  me  a  blow  in  the  precon- 
ceived notions  was  the  eats.  All  of  a  sudden  it  come  to 
me  how  well  we  was  eating,  and — no  kidding — we  could 
seldom  eat  over  half  a  dollar's  worth.  I  don't  mean  be- 
cause it  was  poor,  but  because  it  was  cheap.  In  Rich- 
mond it  occurred  to  me  to  check  up  the  menu,  and  on  my 
word  the  food  ran  from  ten  to  fifty  cents  a  portion,  and 
this  was  no  greasy  vest,  but  a  snappy  little  f  umed-oak  tea 
room,  and  tea  rooms  in  the  West  is  not  the  last  resort  of 
incompetent  gentlewomen,  but  live  business  propositions 
and  run  by  women  who  deliver  the  goods  as  well  as  the 
manners. 

Listen !  Fifteen  cents  for  real  he-bean  soup  in  an  art 
bowl !  Twenty-five  for  roast  chicken.  It 's  the  truth !  And 
filowly  I  begun  also  to  realize  that  we  had  been  getting 


West  Broadway  99 

steadily  better  and  cheaper  food  ever  since  we  crossed  the 
Twenty -third  Street  ferry.  Tom  Westman  was  eating  with 
us  now,  sort  of  as  a  matter  of  course,  in  the  small  places 
especially,  and  he  couldn't  get  over  the  prices. 

' '  Why,  you  couldn  't  eat  on  Second  Avenue  for  that  I ' ' 
he  says  when  he  seen  the  check. 

"Sure  you  couldn't!"  I  says.  "And  yet  us  New  York- 
ers like  to  speak  of  the  crude  Middle  West !  Say,  what 
would  your  brother  Karl  think  if  he  saw  this  menu,  eh? 
He  couldn't  kick  on  the  cost  of  the  poor  workingman's 
food  out  here,  could  he  ?  Can  he  show  me  a  Russian  menu 
with  prices  like  that  on  it — what  ?  And  remember,  we  are 
in  the  swellest  joint  in  town!" 

"Well,  I'll  say  I'm  surprised!"  says  Tom,  looking  over 
the  menu  interestedly.  "And  another  thing  I  notice  that 
is  awful  strange:  The  people  out  here  talk  friendly — 
notice?  No  chips  around  their  shoulders." 

"They  don't  need  to  hafto,"  says  Jim.  "The  big  ma- 
jority stand  on  their  own  feet  out  here." 

And  that  ain't  very  clear,  but  we  knew  what  he  meant, 
and  so  will  any  intelligent  reader.  And  then  we  started 
off  again,  traveling  all  afternoon  over  what  we  in  our  still- 
Eastern  inexperience  thought  was  very  bad  roads,  and 
through  more  model  citylets,  to  Indianapolis,  which  might 
of  been  Bridgeport,  only  it  was  more  so,  where  I  at  once 
fell  into  bed  and  into  one  of  the  joggling,  rumbling,  mov- 
ing dreams  which  a  person  gets  when  they  are  too  tired, 
and  in  which  they  sway  with  the  car  all  night  through 
rivers  and  over  the  backs  of  thousands  of  pigs  and  through, 
millions  of  avenues  of  five-pointed  arc  lights  in  the  latest 
art  model. 

And  then  all  of  a  sudden  I  woke  up,  and  there  was 
Jim  in  his  dressing  gown,  but  all  washed,  his  hair  wet  and 
brushed  sleek  the  way  I  love  it,  and  a  cup  of  hot  coffee, 
which  I  also  loved,  in  his  hand. 


1OO  West  Broadway 

"I  thought  I'd  let  you  catch  up  on  your  sleep,"  he  says. 
"And  here's  your  coffee  and  the  morning  paper.  Take 
your  time  with  them  while  I  do  the  packing." 

And  I  did,  and  these  are  the  little  tender  things  which 
keeps  a  man  and  wife  together  and  one  of  them  on  Jim's 
part  will  last  me  for  weeks. 

Well,  anyways,  I  drank  the  coffee  and  opened  the  paper 
— the  first  I  had  seen  except  little  local  sheets  since  we  had 
left  New  York.  And  when  I  done  so  I  let  out  a  holler 
that  brought  Jim  hopping  to  my  side. 

"What  is  it — scald  yourself?"  he  says. 

"I  don't  know  but  maybe  I  have!"  I  says.  "Look  at 
that ! ' '  and  this  is  what  we  read : 

BROADWAY    BOMB    EXPLOSION 

NOW  LAID  TO  REDS 

NEW  YORK  POLICE  LOOKING 

FOR  RADICAL  LEADERS 


VII 

OUTSIDE  the  window  the  Indianapolis  street  cars 
roared  and  jolted  past  with  protesting  shrieks,  and 
the  hoarse,  confused  murmur  that  belongs  to  big  cities 
could  be  plainly  heard  in  the  silence  which  fell  between  I 
and  Jim  as  we  looked  at  that  terrible  piece  of  news  from 
home.  "Read  it!"  says  Jim.  "I'll  bet  your  highbrow 
friends  of  the  Intelligencia  gang  are  back  of  it!" 

Well,  I  let  that  pass,  because  I  wasn't  so  sure  but  that 
they  was.  And  so  all  I  done  was  read,  and  this  was  what 
the  piece  says:  It  seems  that  on  the  very  day  that  Tom 
Westman  kidnapped  me — just  two  hours  earlier,  in  fact 
— a  terrible  explosion  had  happened  on  lower  Broadway, 
killing  ten  people.  At  first  it  had  been  supposed  that  a 
wagon  with  dynamite  for  blasting  had  been  accidentally 
hit,  but  now  the  cops  thought  it  was  the  Reds,  and  not 
only  the  Reds,  but  that  the  whole  thing  had  been  guided 
by  a  master  mind.  Of  course,  I  at  once  thought  of  Karl 
Westman.  Anyways,  he  had  disappeared  the  day  before 
we  left — I  knew  that — and  although  no  names  were  men- 
tioned by  the  paper,  he  flashed  into  my  mind  right  off. 
And  here  in  the  confusion  of  getting  away  from  home 
we  had  not  even  heard  of  the  explosion.  Ain't  that  New 
York  for  you  though? 

Somehow  the  whole  thing,  terrible  as  it  was,  seemed 
awfully  dim  and  unreal  to  me;  even  that  night  at  dinner 
in  the  Mocking  Turtle,  with  Karl 's  ugly  purple  face  gleam- 
ing through  the  haze  of  smoke  while  his  thick  lips  shouted 
that  the  capitalist  ought  to  be  blown  to  hell — that  it  was 
the  only  way  to  teach  them.  It  all  seemed  like  a  queer, 

101 


1O2  West  Broadway 

unhealthy  dream  to  me,  it  was  so  far  away  from  the  clean, 
fine  country  we  had  been  riding  through  day  after  day; 
the  calm  country  with  its  rich  wide  fields,  its  busy,  clean- 
cut  people,  its  bright  prosperous  young  cities.  In  reading 
that  paper  I  felt  like  I  was  looking  at  New  York,  and  espe- 
cially at  radical  New  York,  through  the  wrong  end  of  the 
telescope,  and  it  appeared  like  a  small  glowing  coal  at  the 
far  end  of  a  long,  cool,  green  valley.  It  seemed  like  the 
beginning  of  time  since  I  had  been  back  there  listening 
with  a  real  disturbed  heart  and  mind  to  those  queer  people, 
shut  up  in  their  smoky  cafe  and  talking,  talking,  talking 
about  a  revolution  in  a  country  they  had  never  even  seen ; 
that  since  then  I  had  been  traveling  for  years  through  a 
land  of  peace  and  plenty.  I  felt  so  safe,  so  secure  up  to 
now  that  I  had  pretty  near  forgotten  what  I  had  come 
for — to  spread  Americanism — and  all  at  once  I  realized 
that  what  I  had  actually  been  doing  was  absorbing  that 
very  thing  myself.  It  had  come  into  me  naturally  out 
of  the  very  air  I'd  been  breathing.  And  if  I  had  read 
that  newspaper  in  any  place  but  the  first  big  industrial 
city  we  had  hit  I  don't  believe  I  would  of  paid  half  the 
attention  to  it  that  I  did. 

' '  Damn  those  crooks ! ' '  says  Jim.  ' '  We  ought  to  deport 
the  whole  crew — these  fellers  that  love  revolution  so.  Why 
don't  they  go  back  to  their  native  Russia,  or  wherever 
they  come  from,  where  they  can  have  a  fight  every  morning 
before  breakfast  if  they  want  it?  I'm  fed  up  with  this 
straddling — one  foot  in  America  and  the  other  foot  back 
home ! ' ' 

"And  it  isn't  as  if  they  was  all  direct  from  the  other 
side  either,"  I  says,  glad  for  once  to  agree  with  my  hus- 
band. "The  ones  which  get  my  goat  are  the  second  and 
third  generation  ones  who  still  love  the  old  country  so 
that  they  are  willing  to  do  everything  for  it  except  go 
live  there." 


West  Broadway  103 

"You  said  a  hors  d'over!"  says  Jim,  lacing  his  older 
boots  briskly  because  of  having  decided  they  was  good 
enough  for  the  car.  "You  said  a  pickled  herring — it'll 
keep !  But  what  I  wonder  is,  did  them  highbrow  members 
of  the  Intelligencia  gang  have  anything  to  do  with  this 
business,  eh?  First  thing  you  know,  Tom '11  be  running 
us  off  a  cliff  and  wrecking  the  car  just  to  show  us  where 
we  capitalists  get  off." 

"That  very  thing  oozed  through  my  own  bean,"  I  says, 
putting  on  the  same  waist  as  yesterday  because  the  laun- 
dry was  commencing  to  pile  up  something  terrible,  and 
as  we  had  forgot  a  laundry  bag,  what  to  do  with  our 
dirty  linen  unless  we  washed  it  in  public  was  getting  to 
be  one  of  the  most  important  things  in  life.  Well,  any- 
ways  

"I  did  think  of  it,  but  I  canned  the  thought,"  I  says, 
* '  because  I  'm  not  going  to  frisk  myself  of  a  perfectly  good 
chauffeur  until  I  got  some  reason  I  can  put  my  teeth  into," 
I  says. 

And  Jim  agreed  with  me,  but  just  the  same  when  Tom 
come  up  and  knocked  on  the  door,  not  expecting  anything 
worse  than  the  usual  morning  bags  and  ecteras,  we  give 
him  the  paper  to  read  and  watched  him  like  a  pair  of  cats 
while  he  done  so.  A  drawn  look  come  into  his  face  which 
had  up  to  now  been  growing  younger  every  day,  making 
him  look  still  young,  but  faded,  the  way  he  had  been 
that  first  night  when  we  talked  about  bombs  across  the 
dirty  dishes. 

"I've  seen  it!"  he  says  very  quietly.  "It  seems  like  a 
nightmare,  don't  it?" 

Well,  what  could  a  person  say  to  that  except  you  bet 
or  something?  So  that  was  all  we  did  say,  and  as  soon  as 
possible  set  off  West  again,  glad  to  leave  Indianapolis,  for 
all  its  noisy  prosperity,  because  in  the  great  manufacturing 
towns  somehow  a  person  could  feel  the  disturbing,  clutch- 


104  West  Broadway 

ing  unrestful  hands  of  the  East,  and — oh,  well,  what's  the 
use  trying  to  explain  it?  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter 
with  industry,  but  I  do  know  that  industry  is  one  of  the 
things  that  is  the  matter  with  the  country.  And  that  the 
farther  West  you  go  the  less  industry — in  a  factory  sense 
— you  see  and  the  more  sane  you  feel. 

At  any  rate,  when  we  started  the  sun  was  shining  in  a 
blue  sky  that  looked  as  if  it  had  come  to  stay,  and  it  was 
real  warm — over  seventy  even  then — so  I  took  off  my 
coat  and  wore  only  a  duster,  because  after  all  it  didn't 
matter  in  the  car,  and  also  took  off  my  hat  to  let  the  sweet 
moist  air  blow  my  troubles  out  of  my  brain,  and  so  it  did 
after  a  few  miles. 

There  is  something  so  kind  of  big  and  endless  about 
driving  across  America  that  it  gives  a  person  a  sense  of 
having  been  cut  loose  from  time  and  place;  it  rests  you 
the  way  nothing  else  can.  You  are  a  kind  of  atom  or 
something,  traveling  free  from  the  maddening  bill  collec- 
tor and  under  no  obligation  to  get  anywheres  on  time, 
because  how  could  you  promise  faithfully  about  a  car? 
No  mail  can  reach  you  up  to  a  certain  point,  and  if  the 
cook  at  home  leaves  or  the  house  burns  down  or  the  ice 
don't  come  or  they  raise  your  taxes  you  should  fret.  You 
don't  even  know  about  it,  and  if  you  don't  like  one  place 
you  can  easy  move  on  to  another.  You  are  the  freest  you 
are  ever  likely  to  be,  and  if  you  add  trouble  to  the  other 
baggage  in  the  car  you  got  nobody  to  blame  but  your 
own  self,  and  anybody  which  don't  leave  old  dog  Trouble 
Ever  Faithful  checked  at  the  home  station  don't  deserve 
to  make  the  trip.  Just  remember  what  the  Hints  to 
Tourists  on  the  back  of  the  map  says — "Load  your  car 
light!" 

Well,  anyways,  I  did  feel  happy  this  morning  in  spite  of 
the  thermometer  going  up  and  up  in  company  with  the 
moisture  out  of  the  ground.  Because,  believe  me,  the 


West  Broadway  105 

Ohio  flood,  which  we  had  thought  fairly  wet,  was  only 
damp  compared  to  Illinois,  and  anybody  which  has  crossed 
that  state  after  a  seven  weeks'  rain  will  understand  me 
perfectly.  And  also  it  was  this  morning  that  I  learned 
a  brand-new  truth  about  garage  men,  which  is  to  say 
they  had  a  brand  of  wickedness  up  their  sleeve  which  I 
had  not  suspected  before,  and  I'll  say  I  had  suspected 
quite  a  few  and  actually  known  of  even  more;  and  this 
new  vice  was  giving  directions  to  innocent  strangers  about 
pet  short  cuts  of  their  own.  Tom  sprung  one  as  we  was 
putting  Indianapolis  behind  us. 

"The  feller  at  the  garage  was  telling  me,"  he  says,  "that 
the  national  road  is  in  bad  shape  from  here  on,  and  to  go 
north  by  Montezuma  and  keep  on  the  Ocean-to-Ocean  trail 
as  far  as  Springfield." 

"All  right!"  says  Jim,  and  off  we  started,  thinking  how 
kind  and  helpful  these  garage  men  are.  And  kind  he  was, 
because  pretty  soon  we  found  out  that  this  knowing  piece 
of  information  was  perfectly  correct,  because  there  was 
a  big  sign  across  the  road  which  says  the  National  was 
closed  to  all  except  swimmers  and  no  boat  traffic  allowed, 
and  so  we  steered  north,  taking  the  gentle  hint  of  a  detour 
sign  in  letters  not  over  two  feet  tall,  and  pretty  soon  we 
was  riding  along  one  of  the  backest  back  roads  I  ever 
hope  to  see,  with  corn  ten  feet  tall  growing  like  a  forest 
on  the  both  sides  of  us  in  cute  little  fifty-acre  fields.  I 
expect  this  was  what  they  call  intensive  cultivation — it  cer- 
tainly was  intensely  large.  And  there  not  being  anything 
else  to  look  at,  why,  of  course,  we  took  in  every  little  thing 
about  it,  from  how  big  the  ears  was  to  how  black  the  earth 
was — like  chocolate  frosting  it  looked.  That's  another 
remarkable  thing  about  this  trip — it  forces  you  to  notice 
a  whole  lot  of  things  you  would  never  notice  any  other 
way.  Imagine  me  noticing  fields  of  corn,  for  a  sample! 


io6  West  Broadway 

But  out  in  this  part  of  the  country  you  just  got  to  notice 
'em,  because  they  are  every  place  you  look. 

Well,  after  a  while  we  come  to  a  little  group  of  houses 
which  was  Montezuma,  and  there  ahead  of  us  in  deep  dis- 
cussion with  the  boys  who  was  holding  down  the  post- 
office  steps  who  would  we  see  but  the  new  gray  Colby- 
Droit,  the  one  which  had  been  so  proud  back  in  West  Vir- 
ginia on  the  wet  clay.  When  he  saw  us  he  started  to 
speak  like  we  had  just  left  off  talking  the  minute  before. 
My  but  that  guy  hated  himself! 

"The  road  ahead  is  impassable!"  he  says.  "Three  cars 
tried  to  get  through  to  Springfield  yesterday  and  had  to 
turn  back.  You'd  better  go  down  to  Terre  Haute  and 
take  the  main  line.  That's  what  I'm  going  to  do.  Our 
cars  will  get  through  all  right,  I  know.  I've  had  a  lot  of 
experience  motoring." 

Well,  believe  me,  having  one  state  road  closed  because 
of  mud  and  repairs  and  the  other  one  closed  because  of 
mud  and  no  repairs  gives  you  a  kind  of  feeling  like  the 
camera  man  had  turned  sixty  feet  without  opening  the 
shutter — in  other  words,  perfectly  blank.  But  if  a  person 
is  stopped  by  little  things  or  big  things  either  they  might 
better  stay  at  home  and  make  their  thirty-five  hundred 
miles  register  riding  round  and  round  Central  Park  in- 
stead of  driving  from  coast  to  coast. 

"We  got  to  get  to  St.  Louis  to-night,  that's  all!"  says 
Jim.  "If  we  turn  back  we  may  be  stuck  a  week.  But  I 
got  no  intention  of  going  over  a  road  that's  marked 
'Closed,'  "  and  he  looked  off  after  the  other  Colby,  which 
was  by  now  heading  back  the  way  it  had  come,  lickety-split, 
or  as  liekety-split  as  the  road  would  allow  of. 

"There  ought  to  be  some  other  way,"  says  Tom.  "Let's 
ask  the  natives." 

And  with  that  he  hopped  out  and  was  met  halfway 
by  a  nice  old  bird  in  blue  jeans  and  a  black  felt  hat,  while 


West  Broadway  107 

we  sat  in  the  car  at  ninety  in  the  shade,  only  we  was  in 
the  sun,  and  pretty  soon  back  come  Tom  with  a  few  notes 
on  the  back  of  a  envelope. 

"He  says  he'd  go  back  if  he  was  us,"  he  announced. 
"Because  his  wife's  cousin's  been  trying  to  get  through 
for  a  week,  and  he's  boarding  free  with  them  yet.  But  I 
got  the  dope  on  a  middle  road,  and  I'm  game  if  the  rest 
are." 

"We  got  to  be,"  says  Jim.  "The  hellovit  is  we  haven't 
time  to  lay  off  until  the  world  dries  up.  We  got  to  get 
through,  that's  all." 

"Sure  we  have!"  I  says.    "Put  on  the  chains  and  go!" 

"We  don't  need  chains!"  says  Tom  scornfully.  "They 
don't  do  no  good.  "Why,  I've  drove  all  over  New  York 
without  chains!" 

"Well,  I  wish  you'd  put  'em  on  just  the  same,"  I  says. 
"The  book  says  put  them  on." 

And  with  that  off  we  started,  innocent  and  gay,  glad 
of  the  blue  sky,  the  beautiful  friendly  fields  and  the  coun- 
try, which  at  last  was  beginning  to  look  a  little  different 
from  home ;  and  if  we  had  a  picture  of  muddy  roads  ahead, 
why,  we  supposed  of  course  they  would  be  only  pretty  bad 
— like,  say,  the  Boston  Post  Road  detours — that  was  fully 
capable  of  splashing  up  the  car  enough  to  make  a  wash 
necessary  in  St.  Louis,  but  not  so  bad  as  the  Ohio  flooded 
ones,  because  nobody  round  here  had  said  anything  about 
that  Noah  stuff,  even  though  it  had  been  raining  for  days. 
But  ye  gobs  and  little  fishes!  We  was  to  learn  the  real 
truth  about  why  a  car  is  called  a  boat!  It  was  nick- 
named so  by  an  Illinoisan,  I  '11  gamble,  and  nicked  is  right, 
because  beneath  the  underdone  mud  are  holes — large  but 
unseen — and  nicked  is  what  your  boat  pretty  soon  is.  I 
personally  myself  can  testify  that  after  the  seventieth 
wallop  in  the  sixty  miles  through  Terre  Haute  to  Paris  our 
tire  bracket  had  a  nervous  breakdown  and  the  tires  had 


1O8  West  Broadway 

to  be  sustained  with  the  tow  rope  that  Jim  had  given 
me  the  merry  laugh  for  bringing.  And  when  they  was  all 
bound  round  with  that  hangman's  handy  tool  we  looked 
about  as  much  toured  against  as  touring. 

But  there  was  one  comfort  in  the  bus  being  covered  with 
mud  and  rope,  and  the  dog  having  put  mud  all  over  the 
bags  with  his  dirty  paws — we  could  let  down  a  little  more 
about  our  personal  appearance,  and  I  even  went  so  far  as 
to  borrow  a  cap  off  of  Jim,  because  a  person  has  to  shade 
their  eyes,  no  matter  how  it  looks;  and  anyhow,  I  didn't 
know  anybody  in  Paris,  Illinois.  Besides,  comfort  is  some- 
thing you  simply  got  to  have  on  a  trip  like  this. 

"Well,  anyways,  I  was  glad  to  see  Paris,  Illinois,  because 
of  all  I  have  read  about  it,  and  also  because  of  a  girl  I 
know  in  the  dressmaking  business  who  calls  herself  Estelle 
Modes,  Paris,  and  she  comes  from  this  town,  but  allows 
the  public  to  infer  anything  they  like.  And  it's  a  good 
town,  and  I  personally  myself  would  just  as  soon  admit  the 
Illinois  part  of  it  after  I  once  seen  it,  even  if  you  do  come 
into  it  out  of  absolutely  nowhere  and  go  right  back  into  the 
void  ten  minutes  after  leaving.  It  was  the  most  surprising 
citylet  we  had  come  on  so  far,  because  while  it  was  as 
perfect  as  any — courthouse,  traffic  cops,  street  lighting  all 
complete,  and  a  ladies '  dressing  room  in  the  big  garage  that, 
no  kidding,  beat  the  Ritz  for  space,  cleanliness  and  little 
comforts — well,  while  this  was  true,  we  come  on  it  out  of 
a  wilder  wilderness  than  any  we  had  been  through  before, 
and  in  all  these  places  I  and  Jim  both  passed  the  remark 
many  times  how  strange  it  is  they  have  absolutely  no  sub- 
urbs— no  scattered  house  lying  around  on  the  outside 
of  the  town  and  getting  thicker  as  you  get  nearer,  but 
you  plunge  all  at  once  without  any  warning  into  the  heart 
of  the  Metropolis,  as  the  newspapers  say.  And  this  true 
fact  never  ceased  to  get  a  rise  out  of  us  all  the  way  from 
Ohio  clear  through  Kansas.  The  citylets  of  the  Middle 


West  Broadway  109 

West  are  in  a  unique  class  by  theirself,  and  the  more  of 
them  I  see  the  more  I  wondered  what  ever  started  that 
N.  Y.  idea  that  they  was  jay. 

Well,  anyways,  when  we  had  admired  Paris  and  admired 
in  particular  a  fifty-cent  dinner  we  had  there  of  only  soup, 
fat  broiled  chicken  and  candied  sweet  potatoes,  two  vege- 
tables, ice  cream,  coffee  and  pie,  we  dashed  down  to  the 
abrupt  ending  of  Main  Street,  taking  the  road  which  the 
garage  man,  which  it 's  a  fact  he  was  stronger  on  plumbing 
than  directions,  had  told  us  to  take,  with  the  pleasing  re- 
sult that  presently  we  was  completely  lost.  We  tried 
to  turn  round  and  go  back  to  Paris  and  was  shortly  even 
more  lost,  and  the  only  signs  on  any  corner  was  Chew 
Cub  Plug  and  Whatsis,  or  some  place  we  never  heard  of 
before,  fourteen  miles. 

And  what  is  further,  we  never  struck  a  farmhouse  on 
any  corner.  They  seemed  to  build  them  in  the  middle  of 
the  block,  if  you  get  that,  so's  to  be  as  far  away  from 
each  other  as  possible,  when  wouldn't' you  think  they  would 
make  it  on  the  four  corners  so  they  could  at  least  fight  with 
each  other,  and  for  the  further  convenience  of  tourists? 
But  they  don't — not  out  West — and  I  would  think  they'd 
die  of  a  lonesomeness  that  could  easily  be  avoided,  especial- 
ly as  lots  of  that  land  is  taken  up  in  quarter  sections,  which 
means  the  four  corners  often  do  come  together. 

Well,  anyways,  we  was  lost  all  right,  and  so  I  says  the 
next  farmhouse  we  come  to  we  will  stop  and  ask,  and  we 
went  on — and  on — and  still  yet  again  on.  Somebody  had 
to  live  some  place  pretty  soon,  we  knew  that,  because 
somebody  must  of  planted  all  that  corn  we  were  going  by 
unless  it  really  grew  wild.  And  meanwhile  we  were  doing 
our  daily  stunt  of  desperately  trying  to  beat  the  sunset  to 
our  hotel,  but  with  St.  Louis  still  the  other  side  of  Jordan. 

"Say,  do  you  realize  we  are  not  only  sluing  from  side 
to  side  up  to  our  hubs  in  goulash,"  I  says  at  length,  "hut 


no  West  Broadway 

that  we  are  only  making  fifteen  miles  an  hour  at  that?" 

"I  was  thinking,"  says  Westman,  who  was  wrestling 
with  the  wheel,  which  tugged  him  about  like  it  was  alive 
and  mad  at  him  and  trying  to  pull  his  arms  out  by  the 
roots — "I  was  thinking,"  he  says,  "of  the  pioneers  who 
come  through  the  mud  out  here  on  ox  carts,"  he  says, 
' '  and  how  there  must  of  been  times  when  they  didn  't  make 
over  fifteen  miles  a  day. ' ' 

He  said  this  so  serious  that  I  shut  up  and  only  looked 
at  him  with  sort  of  new  eyes.  It  was  strange  to  have  this 
kid — foreign  born — think  of  that  before  I,  a  born  Ameri- 
can, did.  But  I  passed  no  comments  on  it,  feeling  it  better 
to  let  the  country  do  its  own  propaganda  without  any 
interference  from  me  in  this  case,  and  then  pretty  soon  we 
actually  come  in  sight  of  a  farm,  and  as  there  didn't  seem 
to  be  nobody  round  but  one  lone  woman,  I  says  I  would 
get  out  and  ask.  And  so  I  threw  my  main  supports  over 
the  door,  and  following  them  went  up  and  said  hello, 
would  she  tell  me  the  road  to  St.  Louis.  It  sounds  like  a 
simple  question,  but  you  don 't  know  the  half  of  it,  or  what 
I  had  started. 

This  lady  was  a  good  substantial  one.  She  sort  of  re- 
minded me  of  ma,  a  white  American  woman  in  a  clean 
gingham  and  starved  for  a  gabfest  like  a  suburban  wife 
for  a  matinee,  only  a  hundred  per  cent  worse.  There  was 
a  talk-hungry  look  in  her  faded  eyes,  and  the  way  she 
stalled  to  keep  me  almost  made  me  cry.  She  took  in  my 
clothes  one  by  one,  and  I  could  see  she  was  disappointed 
they  wasn't  better. 

"Where  you  from?"  she  says  first  of  all.  "New  York? 
My  heaven,  all  the  way  in  that  car?  Where  you  going 
ter?  What?  California?  You  don't  say!  There  was  a 
lady  and  gentleman  through  here  last  month,  but  they  was 
only  going  far  as  Kansas.  I  got  a  cousin  in  Kansas — near 
Cottonwood  Falls.  Ever  been  there?  No,  not  yet,  of 


West  Broadway  ill 

course !  Well,  you  was  asking  about  St.  Louis.  Well,  you 
might  take  your  right — no,  your  left — down  to  Shelbyville 
and  go  crost  to  Vandalia.  I  know  a  man  works  down  to 
Vandalia — and  he  says  it 's  on  the  main  road  to  St.  Louis. ' ' 

"Then  we  better  take  that,"  I  says,  starting  to  go. 
"Thank  you  a  lot." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  I'd  take  it  this  time  o'  year," 
says  the  lady.  "I  hear  there's  a  bridge  gone  down  that 
way.  Better  keep  on  through  Hillsboro  and  Staunton. 
How  far  did  you  say  you  was  going?" 

"California,"  I  says  again. 

' '  Wisht  I  could  go ! "  says  she.  ' '  I  never  get  to  go  no 
place.  They  always  got  some  other  use  for  the  flivver. 
Sometimes  I  feel  like  if  I  ever  once  got  off  this  farm  I 
wouldn  't  never  come  back  to  it  outside  of  a  coffin ! ' ' 

' '  Why,  what 's  wrong  with  it  ? "  I  says. 

' '  Lonesome ! ' '  says  the  woman,  her  lips  shutting  into  a 
thin  line.  "And  besides,  I  ain't  needed  here." 

"Not  needed?"  I  says.  "Why,  who  would  do  the  house- 
work?" 

' '  Oh,  a  camp  cook  can  always  do  that ! ' '  she  says  bit- 
terly. "Women  ain't  actually  needed  on  a  farm.  The 
menfolk  could  get  along  just  as  good  without  us.  Now  in 
the  cities,  that's  different.  I  often  think  of  being  a  sales- 
lady or  clerk  or  a  cook,  even.  But  I'm  too  old  to  com- 
mence again.  Lots  have,  though.  Three  out  of  every  four 
families  hereabouts  has  moved  to  the  cities  these  last  ten 
years." 

"Say,"  I  says,  "you  are  quite  a  thinker!  What  makes 
'em  go?  I  would  think  a  swell  farm  had  it  all  over  the 
city  unless  you  are  real  rich." 

"Think?"  says  the  woman.  "Of  course,  I  think!  I  got 
nothing  else  to  do  except  when  I  'm  working,  and  you  don 't 
have  to  keep  your  mind  on  my  kind  of  work,  so  I  think 
then  too.  And  I'll  tell  you,  young  woman,  no  modern, 


112  West  Broadway 

up-to-date  girl  will  stay  on  a  farm  if  she  can  get  often  it — 
and  no  wonder !  She'd  rather  marry  a  soda  clerk  in  a  town 
than  a  fine  young  feller  that  owns  his  one  hundred  and 
sixty  acres  of  good  farm  land.  And  I  don't  blame  her, 
nuther!" 

"I'll  say  that's  real  radical!"  I  says.  "You  talk  like 
you  wanted  a  soviet!" 

"What's  a  soviet?"  says  the  woman  suspiciously.  "If 
it's  one  of  them  newfangled  reaper  machines  or  a  motor 
plow  I  don 't  want  even  the  name  of  it !  Everything  on 
this  farm  has  been  for  the  farm — see? — and  I'm  sick  of 
it!  Every  penny  that  goes  for  improvements  goes  for 
farm  improvements,  and  not  a  nickel  for  me — not  a  dollar 
for  the  farmhouses  or  us  farm  women.  And  let  me  tell 
you,  young  lady,  the  farmhouse  is  the  heart  of  the  farming 
business,  and  until  the  farmers  their  own  selves  understand 
this  the  young  girls  will  refuse  to  tie  theirselves  up  in 
marriage  to  farmers.  Until  they  get  improvements — elec- 
tric washers,  lights,  decent  houses  they  can  take  some 
pride  in,  and  then  get  some  freedom  from  drudging  about 
with  old-fashioned  inconveniences — they  are  going  to  pre- 
fer city  boys.  I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  about.  I  got  two 
daughters  married  in  the  city,  and  a  son  gone  and  left  us 
too!" 

' '  Gee,  that 's  rough ! "  I  says,  real  interested  by  now. 

"Farm  labor?"  says  the  woman.  "Who  wants  to  be  a 
farm  worker  in  the  kind  of  homes  we  got — far  off,  no  pic- 
ture shows,  nothing  but  work  ?  Why,  there 's  no  law  in  this 
country  against  children  working  on  farms,  and  a  mother 
hates  to  see  her  kids  done  up  with  chores — yet  the  father 
always  wants  'em  to !  Women  hate  farms !  I  hate  this 
one !  I  '11  tell  you,  young  woman,  the  farm-labor  problem 
is  going  right  qn  the  way  it  is  until  the  farm  women  get 
something  better  in  the  way  of  living  than  they  got  now. 
For  every  tractor,  a  equal  new  household  equipment—* 


West  Broadway  113 

that's  my  motto!  My  land,  but  don't  I  wisht  I  was  going 
along  with  you  folks!" 

Jim  was  by  this  time  honking  badly,  so  I  had  to  go. 

"Maybe  you'll  get  away  soon,"  I  says,  shaking  hands 
with  her,  and  she  give  an  awful  funny  answer. 

"I  wisht  he'd  buy  a  phonographt ! "  she  says. 

But  I  understood.  And  when  I  had  given  Jim  the  direc- 
tion and  got  back  in  the  car  again  I  kept  looking  back  at 
her  and  waving  as  long  as  I  could  and  wishing  I  had 
thought  to  ask  her  name  so's  I  could  send  her  a  picture 
postal.  And  the  last  we  seen  of  her  I  think  she  was  still 
talking,  and  so  was  Jim  about  how  it  was  getting  dark 
and  all  my  fault  for  delaying  the  game  like  that,  and 
meanwhile  we  was  going  on  and  on  without  meeting  a 
town  anywheres. 

I  begun  to  think  all  the  towns  had  been  drowned  in  the 
mud,  and  the  old  familiar  ache  of  utter  tiredness  was 
creeping  over  me,  and  we  all  had  the  usual  evening  edge, 
not  meaning  in  any  liquid  sense,  because  liquor  and  us  had 
been  strangers  since  the  start  of  the  trip,  and  nobody  in 
the  places  we  had  been  seemed  either  to  have  any  bootlegs 
or  to  want  any — well,  anyways,  I  mean  edge  to  our  tem- 
pers, and  the  daylight  had  no  consideration  for  us,  but 
just  went  on  giving  out  regardless  and  finally  went  alto- 
gether, leaving  us  soshing  and  struggling  along  over  a 
road  which  was  ruts  and  mud  and  mud  and  ruts  and 
washouts  on  either  hand  lots  of  times  when  we  would 
come  to  a  hill.  The  only  way  to  drive  at  all  was  to  keep 
in  the  shallowest  of  the  ruts  and  pray  to  heaven.  And 
then,  with  Jim  driving,  we  went  over  a  little  bridge,  shot 
up  a  incline,  skidded  to  one  side  and  stopped  dead,  our 
differential  snuggled  down  deep  into  the  lovely  Illinois 
blue  gumbo. 

"I  guess  we're  stuck!"  I  remarked  as  if  I  needed  to  call 


114  West  Broadway 

their  attention  to  it.  "And  in  all  this  wet!  Say,  Jim, 
didn't  all  this  part  of  the  world  used  to  be  an  ocean?" 

"What  d'yer  mean,  used  to  be?"  growled  Jim  savage- 
ly, climbing  into  not  over  two  feet  of  earth  that  hadn't 
jelled.  "Get  at  that  wheel  and  spin  her  around  Tom, 
while  I  cut  some  brush." 

Well,  Tom  spun  her,  and  around  went  the  wheels  all 
right.  They  could  easily,  because  the  car  was  resting  on 
the  pan,  which  left  the  wheels  entirely  free — there  was  no 
bottom  to  the  ruts.  I  though  about  chains  and  how  some- 
body or  another — meaning  me — had  several  times  sug- 
gested putting  them  on  when  the  car  got  up  and  dressed 
in  the  morning.  I  say  I  thought  it,  but  I  kept  my  thoughts 
to  myself.  I  had  no  wish  to  be  murdered  by  two  strong, 
angry  men  on  a  dark  and  lonesome  back  road,  and  I  was 
taking  no  chances.  So  I  merely  switched  on  the  dash  light, 
put  the  three  cushions  on  the  floor,  and  realizing  that  this 
was  the  first  evening  since  we  started  out  that  I'd  had  a 
chance  to  read,  or  hadn't  been  so  sleepy  I  couldn't,  got 
out  Shakspere. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  says  Jim  when  he  saw  me. 
"Reading — when  we  got  all  this  work  to  do?" 

"Well,  you  say  there's  nothing  I  can  do  to  help,"  I  says, 
looking  up  at  him  over  the  top  of  Romeo  from  my  harem 
seat. 

"Well,  you  might  at  least  stand  around  and  watch!" 
he  says. 

"I  can  see  very  good  from  here,"  I  says. 

And  then  he  went  off  awful  mad,  to  look  for  brush  that 
wasn't  there.  Literally  there  wasn't  any — not  a  handful 
except  of  briars,  nor  a  fence  they  could  pull  down  nor  any- 
thing, and  they  had  to  go  looking  for  it  with  the  pocket 
flash  at  that.  Finally  Jim  come  back  from  the  bridge 
behind  us  with  one  loose  board  he  had  caught,  and  threw 
it  behind  the  left  hind  foot  of  our  churchyard  rabbit, 


West  Broadway  115 

giving  meanwhile  a  exhibition  of  some  of  the  language  he 
had  learned  in  the  pictures — pure  Studioese  of  the  strong- 
est kind.  And  when  the  stick  proved  a  mere  nothing  he 
and  Tom  got  out  all  them  things  they  had  kidded  me  so  for 
buying — the  shovel,  the  ax,  the  puller  and  so  forth — and 
commenced  to  play  with  them.  And  while  they  done  so  for 
two  hours  I  read  the  script  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  and  had 
a  real  good  time,  once  in  a  while  stopping  to  hand  them 
a  plier  or  something,  and  showing  almost  superhuman 
self-control  in  never  once  saying  "I  told  you  we  would 
need  them,"  and  a  good  thing,  too,  because  the  puller 
broke  on  the  first  pull;  but  that  was  before  we  found  out 
that  the  wheels  was  going  around  merely  in  space  and 
no  purchase  nearer  than  China. 

"Better  walk  back  to  the  nearest  farmhouse  and  get 
someone  to  come  pull  us  out,"  says  Jim  at  length  when 
they  had  for  over  an  hour  mined  with  the  ax  and  pick  and 
shovel  and  cetera  all  around  the  bus,  but  only  got  her  in 
a  little  deeper  by  doing  it.  "I  hate  to  do  it,"  he  says,  "be- 
cause I  Ve  heard  these  Illinois  farmers  is  a  bunch  of  hold-up 
men  when  it  comes  to  pulling  a  car  out,  but  I  don't  know 
how  we  can  help  it." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "don't  give  'em  a  nickel  over  twenty- 
five  dollars,"  I  says. 

' '  I  won 't ! "  says  Jim.  ' '  They  better  not  try  to  rob  me ! 
But  we  can't  stay  here  all  night." 

"I'll  go  back,"  says  Tom.  "I  saw  a  place  about  two 
miles  down  the  road." 

Jim  went  through  the  motions  of  protesting,  but  Tom 
wouldn't  listen  even. 

"I  don't  mind  a  bit!"  says  he,  lying  cheerfully.  "And 
I'll  bring  help  if  I  have  to  use  a  gun!" 

He  grinned  at  us,  struggling  into  his  sweater  under  the 
headlights,  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  vanished  into  the 
darkness,  leaving  I  and  Jim  to  wait  without  speaking  for 


n6  West  Broadway 

a  time  that  seemed  longer  than  the  whole  rest  of  my  life 
put  together.  And  then,  just  as  we  had  about  decided  he 
had  been  drowned  in  the  mud  or  maybe  murdered  in  the 
lonely  farmhouse,  we  heard  a  car  and  his  voice  calling, 
"There  she  is — right  beyond  the  bridge!" 

Now  I've  heard  a  lot  of  good  music  in  my  time — we  got 
a  two-hundred-dollar  phonograph,  for  one  thing — and  I've 
had  the  best  orchestras  always  when  doing  my  society 
dances  in  the  old  vaudeville  days,  and  once  Al  give  me  two 
seats  to  hear  Caruso  in  person  and  I  didn't  want  to  waste 
them.  But  never — no,  never  on  my  word  of  fair-to- 
middling  honor  have  I  heard  any  music  as  sweet  and 
beautiful  as  the  engine  of  that  car,  excepting  maybe  that 
of  our  own  car  when  it  got  pulled  out  and  was  running. 

As  for  the  two  he-farmers  who  had  come  out  at  nearly 
ten  P.  M.  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  they  were  without  doubt 
two  of  the  handsomest  men  I  ever  seen,  and  real  Ameri- 
cans, too,  of  the  first  water  and  no  German  accent  or  any- 
thing, or  mean  like  you  read  about  keeping  mudholes  as  a 
source  of  income.  Why,  from  their  talk  you  would  of 
thought  it  was  a  pleasure  to  help  us,  and  the  most  remark- 
able part  yet — they  wouldn't  take  a  cent!  Not  a  cent! 
Not  even  one  of  Jim's  cigars,  though  I  don't  know  that  I 
blame  them  for  that,  he  having  kept  his  small-time-salary 
taste  in  tobacco.  But  anyways  they  wouldn't  hear  of 
money. 

"When  somebody  else  is  in  trouble  you'll  help  them," 
says  the  biggest,  handsomest  farmer.  "That's  the  way  to 
pay  such  things." 

And  then  we  shook  hands  all  around  and  gathered  up 
the  mining  outfit  and  chased  the  dog,  which  of  course  took 
that  minute  to  run  off,  and  finally  got  in  and  was  on  our 
way. 

Oh,  the  heavenly  relief  of  it !  Believe  me,  if  you  want 
the  most  exquisite  sensation  of  pleasure,  go  get  stuck  in 


West  Broadway  117 

the  Illinois  gumbo  for  two  hours  and  then  get  out  of  it. 
I'll  tell  the  world  that  never — no,  not  even  when  I  got  my 
first  good  press  notices  did  I  have  a  sensation  like  the  one 
I  had  when  that  bus  give  a  lurch,  come  clean  out  of  the  bog 
and  stood  purring  and  ready  to  go  on  her  way.  The  joy  of 
feeling  her  move  is  something  no  poet  can  tell  about  and 
get  away  with.  It's  one  of  them  things  which  has  got  to 
be  experienced  to  be  understood. 

"Follow  the  heavy  electric  cables  when  you  come  to 
them,"  says  one  of  the  Angel  Farmers,  "right  into  Hills- 
boro.  Good  luck!" 

And  then  we  was  actually  off,  driving  for  miles  and 
miles,  Jim  at  the  wheel  and  trying  to  make  time  in  spite  of 
I  begging  him  to  be  careful.  But  he  was  nervous  and 
tired,  and  the  more  I  asked  him  to  be  careful  the  more  he 
wouldn't,  but  took  corners  in  a  simply  crazy  way,  and 
when  I  thought  the  road  must  be  washed  out  in  the  dark- 
ness on  either  side  my  hair  stood  on  end,  or  would  of  only 
for  my  cap. 

"Jim,  you  nut,"  I  says,  "have  a  heart!  Let  Tom  drive, 
please !  Oh,  Jim,  you  make  me  so  nervous ! ' ' 

' '  Shut  up !  I  won 't ! "  says  Jim.  ' '  I  know  how  to  drive 
this  bus!  I've  drove  it  all  over  New  York  City!" 

"But  this  ain't  New  York!"  I  wailed  but  to  no  avail. 

And  then  what  I  had  been  expecting  but  yet  not  really 
expecting,  if  you  get  me,  happened.  We  dashed  down  a 
grade  where  a  rickety  little  bridge  showed  fantastically 
ahead  in  the  spotlight,  slued  violently  to  the  right  in  the 
treacherous  mud,  missed  the  bridge  and  went  over  the 
bank.  For  one  awful  moment  I  thought  "I'm  going  to 
die !  Oh,  Jim,  I  told  you  so !"  and  then  my  head  hit  some- 
thing with  a  noise  like  a  battlefield,  everything  went  black 
and  I  knew  no  more. 


vni 

WHEN  I  come  to  I  imagined  that  the  whole  entire 
world  including  its  excess  baggage,  had  fallen  on 
top  of  me,  with  apparently  no  intention  of  getting  off.  I 
thought  my  head  was  ruined  and  my  legs  was  all  broke  and 
that  my  screen  value  was  gone  forever.  Also  that  it  was 
really  unnecessary  for  Jim  to  put  his  foot  in  my  face,  but 
that's  a  husband  for  you — no  consideration  in  little  things! 

However,  I  after  a  moment  realized  it  was  not  Jim's 
foot,  but  the  heel  of  a  suitcase  from  the  back  of  the  ton- 
neau,  and  that  Jim  was  under  me  and  pinned  down  tight. 

I  couldn't  believe  it  had  happened,  or  if  it  had  that  it 
must  be  on  a  location  and  pretty  soon  the  whistle  would 
blow,  but  it  didn't;  and  instead  came  not  the  director's 
voice  but  that  of  young  Westman,  who  had  been  flung  clear 
of  the  car  and  was  already  on  his  feet  and  busy  at  some- 
thing or  other,  I  couldn't  tell  what.  To  hear  the  two 
voices  of  he  and  Jim  you  would  of  thought  they  was  con- 
tinuing a  calm  gabfest  that  had  been  going  on  in  a  private 
smoking  den  or  something  for  maybe  a  hour  or  two. 

"I  think  I'm  only  caught,'7  Jim  was  saying.  "Will 
she  hold  if  I  move?" 

"The  top  saved  her  from  going  completely  over,"  says 
Tom's  voice,  "and  there's  a  fence  holding  below.  I'll  have 
her  up  in  a  minute.  Wait  till  I  lift  her  off  you." 

And  this  time  it  was  me  he  meant  by  "her,"  and  some- 
how or  another  he  got  me  out,  first  removing  a  couple  of 
bags  off  my  face,  and  then  the  golf  clubs,  and  then  by 
sheer  strength  pulled  me  through  the  wind  shield,  and 
would  of  helped  me  to  sit  down,  but  I  found  a  young  tree 
and  held  onto  it. 

118 


West  Broadway  119 

"Jim!"  I  says.    "Get  Jim!" 

Well,  I  don't  like  to  dwell  on  the  rest  of  it  too  much. 
Because,  believe  me,  I  dwelt  one  thousand  years  in  twenty 
minutes  at  the  time,  and  that  is  enough.  But  I  do  want  to 
go  on  record  with  a  few  things  about  Tom  Westman,  and 
what  he  did  was  according  to  him  nothing  at  all,  but  the 
true  facts  are  that  Jim  was  caught  with  one  foot  under 
the  car  and  only  held  about  an  inch  from  being  crushed 
by  a  combination  of  lunch  box  and  twisted  left  fender ;  and 
that  Tom  somehow  found  a  plank  where  there  wasn't  any 
and  jacked  that  bus  up  all  alone  so's  Jim  could  pull  out 
his  leg  unharmed  and  get  free  also  through  the  wind  shield, 
and  that  the  car  lay  such  a  way  that  only  for  Tom's  being 
on  the  job  so  quick  and  not  losing  his  head  Jim  would  of 
at  least  had  one  less  leg  to-day. 

Well,  anyways,  after  Jim  was  out  and  my  heart  had  com- 
menced to  beat  again  and  my  head  begun  to  figure  out  that 
the  trip  was  ruined  and  we  would  have  to  go  on  by  train, 
provided  we  could  ever  get  to  some  place  where  trains 
passed,  and  that  now  Jim  was  alive  and  safe  and  nothing 
broken  but  his  sense  of  humor,  why,  then  of  course  I  also 
begun  to  realize  it  had  all  been  his  fault  and  his  deliberate 
carelessness,  and  even  the  fact  that  I  would  from  now  on 
always  have  something  to  throw  up  to  him  for  which  he 
would  have  no  comeback  failed  to  comfort  me. 

And  here  was  where  Tom,  who  seemed  to  have  the 
strength  and  cheerfulness  of  a  team  of  oxen,  showed  us 
different.  For  he  and  Jim  got  the  puller  and  hitched  it  to 
a  tree  and  this  time  it  did  pull,  and  pretty  soon — lifted 
mostly  by  sheer  strength  of  language,  I  guess,  only  of 
course  under  the  circumstances  I  pretended  not  to  hear 
it — that  car  stood  upright  on  the  road,  uninjured  except 
for  a  broken  wind  shield,  cracked  radiator  shell  and 
crumpled  left  mud  guard.  And  I  was  so  happy  over  it 
that  I  never  passed  a  single  remark  about  how  they  had 


12O  West  Broadway 

laughed  at  me  for  bringing  it  when  they  took  the  two 
gallons  of  extra  oil  and  put  it  into  the  of  course  empty 
crank  case ;  and  when  Tom  got  in  and  stepped  on  her  and 
after  a  heart-cracking  sigh  of  hesitation  the  engine  actually 
turned  over  I  wanted  to  pray  in  thankfulness. 

You  know  the  way  a  person  first  naturally  makes  a  lot 
of  rash  enthusiastic  promises  in  the  gratitude  of  the  mo- 
ment, and,  believe  me,  Tom  would  of  got  his  if  he  would  of 
let  us,  which  he  would  not,  and  somehow  made  us  shush, 
as  he  put  it,  we  hardly  knew  how.  He  was  a  better  gentle- 
man than  either  of  us,  I'll  say  that;  but  just  the  same  Jim 
and  I  kept  reservations  in  our  mind  about  what  we  would 
do  for  him  in  increase  of  wages  and  a  car  of  his  own 
when  he  least  expected  it,  and  I  personally  myself  decided 
to  surprise  him  at  Christmas  with  a  diamond-mounted 
watch,  and  was  determined  not  to  cool  down  to  a  post 
card  with  greetings  by  the  time  the  holiday  season  actually 
come  around,  as  is  often  the  case. 

"I'll  never  forget  what  you  done  for  us,"  says  Jim  as 
we  come  at  length  limping  into  the  next  town,  the  most 
beautiful  town  I  ever  saw  that  night  in  my  life,  if  you 
get  me !  ' '  I  '11  never  forget  it,  * '  says  Jim.  ' '  And  I  '11  prove 
it  if  ever  I  get  the  chance  to  do  something  for  you!" 

* '  Oh,  shush ! ' '  says  Tom. 

Now  far  be  it  from  me  to  say  anything  against  this 
town  or  any  other  part  of  Illinois  or  its  people,  except 
of  course  their  so-called  roads,  and  why  be  in  a  hurry  to 
criticize  even  them,  because  maybe  nobody  ever  called 
the  natives'  attention  to  the  condition  of  their  roads, 
and  perhaps  if  they  read  this  they  will  notice  the  roads  the 
next  time  they  are  trying  to  go  some  place,  and  then  maybe 
the  roads  will  be  improved  and  become  as  the  poet  says, 
worthy  of  the  towns  they  run  up  to  and  the  farms  they 
lead  to;  and  when  this  is  accomplished,  why  it  will  be 
easier  to  keep  help  that  has  seen  Paree,  because  the  help 


West  Broadway  121 

will  not  be  so  constantly  reminded  of  the  battlefield  mud, 
which  they  have  also  seen,  remember!  Also  social  calls 
between  farm  ladies  will  be  easier,  and  the  heart  of  the 
farm  problem,  which,  like  pretty  near  any  other  national 
problem,  it  seems,  lies  in  the  home,  will  be  a  little  solved 
by  making  the  great  farms  more  accessible,  and  farmers 
are  social  human  beings  like  anybody  else,  or  would  be 
if  possible ;  and  it 's  a  shame  that  hell  is  paved  with  good 
intentions  when  the  apparent  lack  of  even  the  intentions 
is  making  hell  out  of  such  a  lot  of  good  farm  country. 

I  don't  know  how  a  person  does  it,  even  after  having 
done  it  myself,  but  once  you  get  your  mind  made  up  to 
drive  from  coast  to  coast  you  get  a  kind  of  extra  strength 
that  comes  partially,  I  guess,  from  your  mental  workings 
and  the  utter  freedom  from  all  ties.  But  however  the  scien- 
tific facts  are,  I  know  that  a  person  can  and  does  fall 
into  bed  at  night  with  every  bone  and  muscle  aching  like 
you  had  the  flu  or  something,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ache  in 
your  temper  and  the  pain  in  the  small  of  your  disposition. 
And  yet  you  wake  up  next  morning  before  the  roosters  do, 
all  full  of  pep,  and  would  have  to  look  in  your  notebook  to 
remember  how  you  felt  last  night.  A  kind  of  urge  to  get 
along — to  be  on  your  way — gets  to  you,  and  by  the  time 
you  are  in  the  Middle  West  the  Far  West  starts  calling 
like  mad,  even  if  you  ain't  ever  seen  it  before.  It's  like 
getting  religion  or  something.  It's  like  hearing  the  voice 
of  somebody  you  love,  faint  and  clear  and  insistent  in 
your  brain.  You  actually  get  homesick  for  the  West  that 
is  in  your  brain,  and  you  feel  you  got  to  hurry  toward  it 
or  be  sick.  I  don't  know  why  this  is  true,  but  it  is.  You 
are  like  the  little  girl  in  the  fairy  story  where  the  magic 
lady  kept  leading  her  from  field  to  field  where  each  new 
place  had  bigger  and  brighter  flowers  than  the  one  before, 
until  she  was  a  very  long,  long  ways  from  home  and  glad 
of  it.  Can  you  get  that  at  all?  It's  magic,  all  right,  that's 


122  West  Broadway 

what — and  the  thrill  begins  with  the  very  word  "West." 
The  farther  you  go  the  bigger  the  flowers  are  in  the  next 
field  just  beyond,  and — I  know  this  sounds  sort  of  silly — 
you  get  greedy  for  beauty  and  more  of  it. 

And  those  fields  of  flowers  are  not  all  flowers  of  speech 
on  my  part  either.  Because  after  a  day  of  repairs  at  the 
town,  during  which  time  our  dramatic  night  of  horrors  and 
heroic  rescues  come  down  to  earth  as  a  plain  hellova  nui- 
sance and  delay — well,  after  that  day  we  plunged  down 
into  fields  of  golden  flowers  all  right;  acre  after  acre  of 
clear  yellow  blossoms  that  would  put  your  eye  out,  and 
each  field  more  lovely  than  the  next,  although  I  expect 
a  mere  weed  to  the  farmers. 

Down,  down  we  plunged  out  of  the  hilly  country — and 
"plunged"  is  right — through  lakes  that  had  once  been 
roads,  with  the  blue  sky  reflected  in  them  and  the  curses 
of  the  tourists  drowned  in  them,  and  all  the  while  the 
fields  growing  flatter  and  more  golden ;  but  I  did  sure  won- 
der where  the  tourists  who  was  camping  done  so ;  perhaps 
they  carry  rafts  as  well  as  tents  while  passing  through 
this  country,  which,  I  must  add,  grows  wonderful  water- 
melons— and  why  not? 

At  last  the  map  showed  we  was  on  the  Mississippi  bot- 
toms, and  I  showed  off  a  little  of  my  education  to  Jim, 
which  it  was  about  time  I  done  so,  because  he,  having  seen 
the  West  by  train,  was  forever  pointing  out  things  we  was 
coming  to  but  never  did. 

"Say,  this  Mississippi  River  is  what  made  Mark  Twain 
and  Frances  White  famous,  ain't  it?"  I  says — "besides 
several  other  great  song  writers?" 

"I  don't  know,"  says  Jim.  "But  I  know  St.  Louis  is 
the  place  so  many  head  waiters  was  named  for." 

Well,  the  comedian  having  pulled  the  cue,  I  sat  back 
and  waited  for  the  black-faced  chorus  in  red-and-white 
stage  calico  to  cross  our  path  with  a  patter  dance  and  a  few 


West  Broadway  123 

jazzy  stanzas  about  down  the  Mississippi  where  we  all  go 
dippy  underneath  the  ragtime  moon,  and  waiting  for 
maybe  even  the  lighting  to  change  and  the  silvery  moon  to 
come  up  at  4.30  p.  M.,  I  having  the  thorough  N.  Y.  con- 
ception of  the  daily  life  of  the  Mississippi  Valley  so  realis- 
tically put  before  me  for  years  by  Broadway  managers. 

And  it's  the  truth,  the  average  New  Yorker — and  re- 
member there  are  over  six  million  of  them,  or  anyways  five 
million  six  hundred  thousand,  and  the  rest  of  them  are  a 
little  above  the  average,  including  ourselves — well,  as  I 
was  saying,  it's  the  truth,  their  whole  idea  of  America  is 
what  some  smart  young  stage  manager  who  has  never  been 
west  of  Hoboken  has  put  before  them  on  the  stage,  and 
shouted  himself  hoarse  for  the  girls  to  put  a  little  pep  into 
it.  And  even  I  personally  myself  used  to  be  half  convinced 
that  Indians  was  mostly  blond  chickens  with  feathers  on 
their  heads  and  very  little  else  except  the  jewels  their  rich 
uncle  had  give  them,  and  that  cowboys  walked  with  their 
hands  on  their  hips  and  always  as  a  background  to  a  tenor. 
Do  you  get  me?  And  New  York  is  perfectly  satisfied 
with  its  ignorance. 

Well,  all  I  got  to  say  is  that  I  learned — and  that  it  is 
time  the  East  Coast  woke  up  to  the  fact  that,  Shakspere 
to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  where  ignorance  may  be 
bliss  you  are  a  darn  fool  not  to  get  wise,  and  coming  into 
St.  Louis  and  finding  it  and  surrounding  country  no 
nonsensical  bunch  of  coon  jazz,  banjos  and  cheap  senti- 
ment, but  a  wonderful,  rich,  hardworking,  nonradical  unit 
of  the  U.  S.  A.  put  me  in  mind  of  a  waiter  I  once  met, 
and  this  is  a  true  story,  and  he  was  one  of  them  Louies 
from  St.  Louis,  too,  only  they  call  it  "Lewis"  out  there. 

Well,  anyways,  this  horrible  example  of  what  the  West 
thinks  of  N.  Y.  come  back  to  me  at  this  time  and  I  under- 
stand it  now,  though  I  didn't  at  the  time  it  happened  in  a 
Sixth  Ave.  restaurant  where  I  and  Jim  had  gone  to  get  our 


124  West  Broadway 

supper  after  the  show  we  was  playing  at  the  Colossal, 
where  we  was  appearing  for  ten  minutes  and  a  thousand 
dollars  in  person  this  week  only. 

Well,  this  waiter  was  a  stranger  to  us,  and  Jim  says, 
"Where  is  Joe  who  used  to  be  at  this  table?"  And  the 
waiter  says,  "When?"  And  Jim  says,  "Oh,  about  two 
years  ago. ' '  And  the  waiter  says,  * '  Oh,  I  wasn  't  here  then ! 
I  was  in  America."  Well,  we  took  notice  of  that,  because 
this  was  Sixth  Avenue. 

"Well,"  says  Jim,  "where  was  that?" 

"West  of  the  Mississippi  River,"  says  the  waiter  with 
a  snort,  and  walks  away. 

Well,  I  personally  would  say  he  was  too  rough  on  111., 
Ind.  and  Ohio  and  ect.,  but  it's  a  fact  the  Eastern  States 
are  getting  a  whole  lot  too  foreign  for  their  health,  and 
undoubtedly  that  waiter  was  only  talking  about  as  much 
of  the  country  as  he  had  actually  seen.  He  had  also  said 
when  we  questioned  him,  "What's  the  use  in  me  trying  to 
tell  you  about  this  country — buy  a  ticket,  that's  all — just 
go  buy  a  ticket ! ' '  And  it  wasn 't  until  I  started  traveling 
that  I  got  him  right  at  all.  New  York  is  the  spoiled  Rich 
Man's  daughter.  She's  a  beauty,  and  she  has  got  every- 
thing in  the  world  she  wants,  including  foreign  company 
with  fancy  names  and  highbrow  ideas.  But  she  sometimes 
forgets  it's  Poppa  and  Momma  who  gives  her  most  of  what 
she's  got,  and  that  their  name  is  Mr.  and  Mrs.  West.  I 
hope  they  won 't  let  her  marry  a  foreign  title — particularly 
not  a  Russian  one.  That  waiter  had  the  dope — 1 11  suggest 
he  did.  It's  practically  impossible  to  tell  New  York's 
friends  about  her  parents.  You  got  to  buy  'em  a  ticket 
—that's  all! 

I  realized  this  anew  as  I  passed  through  that  Mississippi 
Valley,  which  was  literally  and  actually  flooded  with  gold, 
and  it  being  toward  sunset  when  we  passed  through  it,  the 
sky  was  also  gold,  so  that  a  person  could  hardly  say  where 


West  Broadway  125 

the  fields  of  blossoms  ended  on  the  horizon  and  the  sky 
begun.  We  rounded  a  bend  in  the  so-called  road,  and  there 
seated  on  a  stone — and  in  passing,  let  me  say  it  was  the 
only  stone  we  had  seen  since  leaving  Ohio — well,  anyways, 
seated  on  a  stone  on  a  little  rise  of  ground  was  a  girl  sil- 
houetted against  the  blazing  sky  of  which  her  maze  of  yel- 
low hair  seemed  to  be  a  part,  her  feet  buried  in  the  carpet 
of  gleaming  yellow  daisies. 

Just  beyond  her  the  smoke  of  a  camp  fire  arose  on  the 
still,  hot  air,  as  hesitating  and  graceful  as  a  cheesecloth 
dancer's  scarf,  and  a  tent — a  funny  tent  that  let  down 
from  the  roof  of  a  flivver — was  pitched.  You  could  smell 
bacon  frying  and  a  woman's  voice — not  a  young  woman's 
but  a  sweet  woman's — was  singing: 

Weep  no  more,  my  lady, 
Oh,  tum-de-tum-tum-day ! 

And  just  as  I  was  thinking  "What  a  pretty  scene!  I 
wish  we  could  politely  stop  and  look  at  it,"  something 
went  wrong  with  the  car,  and  we  did.  And  not  until  I 
had  accepted  Tom  Westman's  statement  to  the  effect  that 
it  was  the  wiring  did  I  realize  that  the  campers  was  the 
Peterkins. 

Well,  I  am  not  so  old  but  that  when  I  see  it  was  Alma 
Peterkin  who  was  mingling  her  hair  with  the  sunset  I 
had  a  little  sympathy,  and  left  her  and  Tom  to  fix  the 
car  between  them,  because  without  lifting  the  hood  I  knew 
it  was  going  to  be  a  long  job,  and  I  took  Jim  with  me, 
because  men  are  so  dense,  and  we  went  over  and  talked 
with  pa  and  ma  and  auntie  and  grandma  and  the  kids,  and 
Welcome  come  over,  too,  and  talked  to  their  spitz-found- 
land. 

"Well,  of  aU  things,  if  it  ain't  the  Colby-Droits ! "  says 
Mr.  Peterkin,  putting  down  an  ax  and  greeting  us  like 


126  West  Broadway 

we  was  English  nobility  by  that  name.  "Well,  well!  In 
trouble?  Can  I  help?" 

"Oh,  no!"  I  says  hastily.    "The  boy  can  do  it." 

"I  suppose  so!"  says  Mr.  Peterkin — but  didn't  mean 
what  I  meant.  And  then  out  come  Mrs.  P.  from  the  depths 
of  her  canned-goods  box  and  welcomed  us  over  the  tinned 
cow. 

"Why,  if  it  ain't  you  folks!"  she  says.  "Sit  down— I 
don't  know  where,  but  do!" 

And  I'll  be  dog-goned  if  in  three  minutes  we  wasn't 
chewing  the  rag  like  old  friends  who  had  been  separated 
long  enough  to  have  something  to  talk  about! 

"You  see,"  pa  was  saying,  "we  all  was  living  a  tight 
little  life  back  East,  centered  around  the  store — general 
merchant,  I  was — and  finally  the  profiteers  drove  me  out — 
and  I  thank  God  for  it — I  do,  that !  First  it  was  the 

commission  houses Why,  man,  it  made  me  sick  to 

charge  thirty  cents  for  potatoes  worth  five,  but  how  could 
I  help  it  if  I  was  going  to  live?  And  then  the  landlord 
started  after  me.  By  gollies,  it's  done  my  heart  good  to 
see  all  these  building  fellers  getting  theirs — if  they  ever 
actually  do  go  to  jail — and  the  landlord  too !  We  stood 
for  it  for  over  two  years — four  raises,  that  was  what  he 
pulled  on  us !  And  then  I  got  this  idea.  We  didn  't  own 
our  own  house,  but  we  did  own  our  car.  What's  the  an- 
swer— that  we  are  here,  paying  rent  to  nobody !  And  we 
are  not  the  only  ones  making  our  car  our  home,  and  it's 
no  longer  where  we  hang  our  hat,  but  where  we  park  the 
bus." 

"But  how  about  a  little  work?"  says  Jim.  "Or  have 
you  saved  enough  for  the  rest  of  your  life?" 

"I've  saved  enough  to  last  until  we  find  a  place  we'd 
like  to  locate  better  than  where  we  was  in  Jersey,"  says 
pa.  "I'll  tell  you  the  way  of  it:  One  day  I  decided  that, 
in  spite  of  appearances  around  home,  this  was  still  a  free 


West  Broadway  127 

country — at  least  the  roads  were  free.  Ma  thought  I  was 
crazy,  but  ip.  the  end  decided  she  'd  be  game  and  that  maybe 
living  out  of  doors  would  be  as  good  for  the  kids  as  school 
until  we  found  a  home  we  liked.  Then  there  was  Alma — 
my  girl.  Well,  Alma,  she's  a  stenog,  and  she  thought 
somebody  else's  typewriter  out  "West  would  be  as  good  as 
the  one  she  was  working  on  at  the  time,  and  so  she  just 
up  and  quit." 

"And  she  can  get  a  job  anywhere,"  says  her  ma,  "be- 
cause she's  real  good  at  it." 

"And  my  wife's  mother  here,  and  my  sister,"  says 
pa — "well,  it  seems  they  had  both  all  their  lives  wanted 
to  see  California.  So  had  we  all  of  us,  for  that  matter, 
and — well,  we  had  a  session  on  it  and  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  only  thing  in  life  a  person  need  be  afraid  of 
is  being  afraid,  and  that  we  would  just  up  and  go.  I  sold 
out,  and  here  we  are ! ' ' 

"And  do  you  like  it?"  I  says  to  ma. 

"Well,"  says  she  in  her  comfortable  manner,  which  re- 
minded me  a  lot  of  my  own  ma — "well,  I  always  like  it  in 
the  mornings  after  we  get  started.  Sometimes  at  night 
I  must  say  my  own  regular  kitchen  would  look  good  to 
me.  But  a  person  gets  tired  after  traveling  so  much  and 
seeing  such  a  lot.  Are  you  camping?" 

"No,"  I  says,  half  sorry.  "We  have  to  be  in  Los  An- 
geles a  certain  date  and  was  afraid  we  wouldn't  have 
time." 

"It's  nice  to  be  independent  of  hotels,"  says  ma.  "I'd 
begrudge  them  the  money,  even  if  we  had  it.  My,  when 
we  first  got  that  flivver  I  never  thought  we'd  go  this  far 
in  it !  Funny  thing  about  a  car,  the  way  it  opens  up  the 
world.  First  off  you  just  go  for  rides.  Then  maybe  you 
go  to  Boston  overnight,  and  it  seems  like  a  great  big  dan- 
gerous journey.  And  gradually  you  come  to  realize  that 
roads  go  right  on  beyond  any  place  you  ever  been,  and  that 


128  West  Broadway 

you  got  a  car!  Why,  we  had  ours  two  years  before  we 
realized  we  could  see  America  in  it !  Say,  are  you  going  to 
the  Grand  Canyon?" 

"Yes,  indeed!"  I  says,  feeling  less  like  the  supposedly 
privileged  rich  every  moment. 

"And  take  a  run  down  into  Mexico!"  ma  went  on. 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  I  says,  very  humble. 

"I  think  we  might,"  says  ma,  "and  that  I  would  pass 
on  the  idea.  It  was  given  us  by  three  maiden  ladies  from 
Maine  who  was  driving  themselves  in  an  old  Innerland. 
They  said  they  thought  the  gambling  and  murders  and  all 
down  in  Mexico  would  be  real  interesting  to  see ! " 

Well,  we  left  them  after  that.  What  else  could  a  person 
do?  But  feeling  we  had  made  new  friends,  and  somehow 
getting  closer  to  these  real  people  out  here  under  the  open 
sky  without  any  trammels  of  civilization  than  we  ever 
would  of  at  home,  where  we  would  of  been  merely  grocer 
and  customer,  and  had  no  chance  to  find  out  that  we  were 
friends — real  actual  friends,  with  tastes  and  plans  that 
was  just  alike,  and  although  all  members  of  the  Republican 
Party,  democratic  in  our  hearts.  I  mean  in  the  real  sense. 
And  it  was  the  simplicity  of  our  background  had  brought 
us  so  close. 

"Close"  is  right  too.  Because  when  Tom  finally  decided 
the  car  was  physically  able  to  proceed  and  had  got  into  the 
driver's  seat  and  I  sat  beside  him  and  we  was  on  our  way 
again  I  noticed  he  had  a  yellow  flower  in  his  buttonhole, 
which  was  all  right,  and  maybe  he  had  put  it  there  him- 
self, but  there  was  also  a  yellow  hair  parked  near  it,  and 
oh,  well,  probably  he  put  it  there  himself  as  well,  if  you 
get  me. 

St.  Louis  was  the  first  city  we  had  struck  that  was  a 
real  city  without  being  in  any  way  a  imitation  of  the 
East.  You  would  think  it  had  set  out  to  make  a  pattern 
for  cities  on  its  own,  and  done  a  pretty  good  job,  and  I'll 


West  Broadway  129 

say  the  ladies'  clubs,  of  which  there  are  not  over  half  a  mil- 
lion of  them  there,  had  quite  a  hand  in  doing  it,  because 
they  are  a  bunch  of  live  wires,  and  at  once  discovered  who 
I  was,  and  I  had  to  make  seven  speeches  while  the  rest 
of  the  crowd  ate  seven  banquets,  and  me  having  coming 
West  without  a  single  decent  dress,  because  I  thought  I 
wouldn't  need  them  and  that  the  cities  would  all  be  hick 
towns  and  any  old  thing  would  do !  And  here  I,  Marie  La 
Tour,  the  best-dressed  woman  on  the  silver  sheet,  was  the 
rag  bag  of  the  party !  Actually  I  commenced  to  long  for 
the  place  where  I  could  put  on  my  riding  clothes,  but  in  the 
meanwhile  was  heavily  entertained  by  smart,  snappy  wom- 
en who  constantly  assured  me  it  didn't  in  the  least  mat- 
ter what  I  wore,  which  is  a  sentence  that  can  come  only 
from  females  who  positively  know  they  are  O.  K.  in  ap- 
pearance their  own  selves,  and  that  you  are  not  quite. 

St.  Louis  is  full  not  alone  of  women's  clubs,  fine  old 
French  manners,  people  who  live  on  the  interest  of  their 
incomes  and  hardly  show  it,  dramatic  movements,  little 
magazines  and  the  Davis  Cup,  but  of  automobile  factories, 
people  who  will  tell  you  how  to  make  gin  out  of  sweet 
spirits  of  niter,  and  the  homes  of  near-beer  and  symphony 
societies  and  milliner  shops,  where  I  bought  a  couple  of 
hats  to  make  me  feel  better  groomed,  but  Jim  kicked  at 
the  extra  hatbox.  Well,  it  has  all  these  and  many  other 
attractions,  but  the  morning  we  was  to  make  our  exit  was 
the  best  one  to  me,  because  my  circus  blood,  I  guess,  was 
simply  by  then  aching  for  the  open  road,  which  we  under- 
stood would  be  opener  than  those  we  had  just  swum 
through. 

And  so  when  the  bags  had  all  gone  down  to  the  car  and 
the  last  bell  boy  had  got  his,  and  I  was  all  ready  to  start 
at  7 :30  A.  M.  of  a  fine  morning,  it  was  no  pleasure  to  have 
Jim  come  into  the  room,  not  to  see  had  he  left  his  shaving 


130  West  Broadway 

brush  as  was  natural,  but  to  wave  the  morning  paper  at 
me. 

"Kid,"  he  says,  "there  is  serious  news.  The  New  York 
police  have  pinned  that  bomb  explosion  onto  Karl  West- 
man's  crowd,  and  they  are  looking  for  him  and  for — gee 
whiz!  They're  looking  for  Tom  as  well!" 


IX 

1  HATED  to  believe  my  husband,  but  it  was  true.  I 
read  the  piece  in  the  newspaper  with  my  own  eyes,  and 
there  could  be  no  doubt  but  that  the  case  against  both 
Westmans  was  pretty  strong,  though  entirely  circum- 
stantial. 

It  seems  that  a  certain  car  known  to  of  been  used  by 
"Westman  had  been  near  the  place  of  the  explosion  just 
before  it  occurred;  and  that  also,  from  fragments  of  the 
murder  car,  the  police  had  been  able  to  prove  it  was  the 
same.  Whether  the  Westmans'  disappearance,  which  now 
came  out,  had  been  caused  by  the  explosion  or  not,  there 
was  no  evidence  to  prove — and  of  course  we  had  one  of 
the  evidences,  meaning  Tom  himself,  right  along  with  us, 
so  we  knew  he,  at  any  rate,  hadn't  been  blown  to  samples. 

It  looked  mighty  funny,  though — funny  in  the  most 
serious  sense,  I  mean  to  say,  and  yet  no  one  had  actually 
seen  either  of  the  Westmans  in  the  explosion  car  that  day. 

"It's  hard  to  think  that  kid  is  a  criminal,"  says  Jim, 
walking  up  and  down  the  hotel  bedroom  and  waving  his 
paper  in  genuine  and  not  silver-sheet-plated  distress. 
"Lookit  how  he's  been  with  us  close  day  after  day,  and 
never  showed  on  him!" 

""Well,  James  Smith,"  I  says,  "criminal  or  not,  don't 
forget  we  owe  our  lives  to  him,  for  the  Colby  would  surely 
of  crushed  us  both  only  for  his  prompt  action." 

"That's  true!"  says  Jim.  "Another  minute  and  she'd 
of  turned  turtle,  and  then — good  night!  But  what  11  we 
do,  with  the  bulls  trying  to  find  him  ? ' ' 

' '  Keep  them  from  doing  it ! "  I  says.  ' '  The  kid  is  a  good 
kid,  or  I  miss  my  guess,  and  an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth 
131 


132  West  Broadway 

for  a  tooth — you  know  the  Bible  says  it,  and  1 11  say  that 
covers  the  whole  insurance  policy.  We  owe  him  a  life 
for  our  life !  Besides,  he  may  be  innocent ! ' ' 

"Then  why  does  he  hide?"  Jim  comes  back  at  me.  "How 
about  it?" 

"Well,  why  not  ask  him?"  I  says.  "We  believed  him 
in  the  first  place,  when  we  left  New  York  with  him  under 
peculiar  circumstances.  So  why  not  now?  Have  him 
up  and  have  it  out." 

"All  right!"  says  Jim,  and  goes  to  the  phone.  "Send 
up  my  chauffeur,  please,"  he  says,  and  pretty  soon  Tom 
appears,  suspecting  nothing  worse  than  an  extra  bag  or 
package. 

"Good  morning,  Tom,"  I  says.  "Did  you  see  the  pa- 
pers yet?" 

Well,  Tom's  face  went  white  under  the  sunburn  at  that, 
which  was  enough  for  Jim. 

"Shut  the  door!"  he  says,  but  doing  it  himself.  "Look 
here,  Westman, ' '  he  goes  on, ' '  what  do  you  know  about  the 
Broadway  bomb  explosion  back  in  New  York?" 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Tom  looked  Jim  right 
in  the  eyes — head  up  and  everything — not  a  bit  like  either 
a  crook  or  a  boastful  Bed. 

"I  left  New  York  because  of  it,  Mr.  Smith,"  he  says 
quietly.  "And  yet  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  If  you 
wish,  I  will  give  myself  up  to  the  St.  Louis  police,  but  they 
will  let  me  go  again — and  nothing  will  be  gained  for 
justice;  that  I  swear!" 

"Humph!"  says  Jim.  "You  had  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
eh?  Then  why  are  you  hiding?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  says  Tom.  "I'm  doing  something 
I  can't  explain.  I  can  only  ask  you  to  trust  me — and 
that's  asking  a  good  deal,  I  know.  But  you  trusted  me 
once." 

"And  you  saved  our  lives!"  I  broke  in  hotly.    "Jim, 


West  Broadway  133 

I'm  willing  to  go  on  betting  on  him.  He's  not  a  Red — are 
you,  Tom?" 

"I My  ideas  on  that  have  got  badly  disturbed  since 

I've  been  on  this  trip — seen  the  country,"  he  began,  sort 
of  hesitating,  his  brown  eyes  reminding  me  of  a  troubled 
hound.  "A  month  ago  I  would  have  said  yes,  I  am  a 
radical!  But  there  was  a  lot  I  didn't  know — hadn't  seen. 
I'm  not  one  to  throw  the  teachings  of  a  lifetime  over  in  a 
week  or  two,  Miss  La  Tour,  nor  to  pretend  to  do  so  in  order 
to  get  help  and  protection  from  you  folks.  But  no  matter 
what  I  may  feel  about  social  justice,  I  am  in  no  way  re- 
sponsible for  that  bomb  plot,  I  swear!" 

"And  your  brother?"  says  Jim  doubtfully. 

' '  What  about  your  own  brother  ?  "  I  snapped.  ' '  Suppose 
everyone  was  to  have  their  families'  doings  fastened  on 
to  them,  what  kind  of  a  world  would  it  be?  You  don't 
approve  of  your  brother  being  a  acrobat,  but  how  can  you 
help  it ?  What  I  say  is,  let's  stick  by  Tom  until  he's  proved 
guilty.  I  guess  I  know  a  real  person  when  I  see  it,  and  if 
he  says  he's  got  a  decent  reason  for  what  he's  doing  I'm 
going  to  take  a  chance  on  helping  him.  The  law  can't  jug 
us  any  harder  for  helping  a  supposed  criminal  escape  to 
California  than  to  New  Jersey,  and  so  I  say  we  keep  on 
escaping,  that's  all!" 

Well,  after  that  we  shook  hands  all  round.  I  don't  know 
just  why,  and  I  hadn't  spilled  my  real  reason,  which  waa 
that  no  matter  what  Tom  had  been — no  matter  how  red, 
short  of  murder — when  he  crossed  the  Twenty-third  Street 
ferry  going  West  he  was  outgrowing  it  without  knowing  it, 
the  same  as  if  his  radicalism  was  a  woolen  union  suit  that 
had  gone  to  the  wash.  His  redness  was  fading  and  shrink- 
ing while  he  didn  't  know  it,  and  I  had  a  hunch  he  was  go- 
ing to  arrive  on  the  coast  a  pretty  good  American  if  noth- 
ing— particularly  cops — come  up  to  interfere  in  the  mean- 
time. But  of  course  I  wasn't  going  to  be  such  a  boob  88 


134  West  Broadway 


to  mention  this  and  get  him  to  fighting  his  unconscious 
education. 

Well,  anyways,  we  went  downstairs,  Jim  having  actually 
found  his  toothbrush  was  as  usual  forgotten  but  put  it  in 
his  pocket,  and  made  for  the  car,  which  I  hardly  recog- 
nized, because  it  had  been  washed — washed  with  a  pickax, 
hose  and  time  and  a  half  for  overtime,  and  still  you  could 
hardly  see  it,  and  it  seems  a  waste  on  those  muddy  roads, 
but  if  you  don't  do  it,  actually  that  clay  packs  tight  and 
the  wheels  wouldn't  turn  round,  and  that  is  no  joke  except 
on  the  ones  who  don't  believe  it  and  let  it  go  dirty. 

Well,  anyways,  as  we  were  passing  through  the  lobby 
after  our  usual  breakfast  in  the  all-night  lunch,  which  is 
where  you  have  to  eat  if  you  want  to  make  a  early  start, 
most  dining-rooms  not  getting  up  until  seven-thirty  or 
eight — well,  as  we  was  passing  through  the  lobby  I  seen 
two  mashers  watching  me,  and  I'll  say  it  takes  the  West- 
erners to  get  at  it  that  early  in  the  morning. 

One  was  a  fat  man  with  a  round  baby  face,  and  the 
other  a  little  bird  with  spinach,  French  style.  I  noticed 
them  particularly,  while  pretending  not  to,  because  they 
went  as  far  as  the  door  and  stood  behind  it  while  we  got 
in  the  car.  But  I  said  nothing  to  Jim,  because  if  I  had  of 
we  would  never  of  got  started,  and  he  had  already  made 
us  late  with  his  toothbrush  and  bad  news  and  not  being 
able  to  find  the  dog. 

But  at  last,  the  usual  morning  fight  about  why  did  you 
bring  all  this  junk  and  so  forth  being  over,  we  drove  off, 
finding  our  way  out  of  the  city  with  only  the  usual  num- 
ber of  wrong  turns  and  inquiries,  and  at  last  I  took  a 
deep  breath  of  pleasure,  for  we  was,  after  two  long  days 
of  restless  rest,  on  the  broad  highway  again  and  Westward 
ho!  and  everything. 

I  now  feel  that  I  want  to  pass  a  few  remarks  upon  and 
about  Missouri,  and  the  first  of  them  is  that  Jim  kept 


dway  135 

me  in  a  state  o^cfread  because  Kansas  was  now  more 
or  less  directly  ahead. 

"Kansas  is  flat  as  a  pancake,"  he  says.  "And  I  warn 
you  you  will  get  awful  bored  going  through  it,  because 
there  is  nothing  to  it  but  wheat.  I  been  across  twice  in 
the  train,  and  I  know.  "Wheat,  wheat — jack  rabbits — 
nothing  else!  But  you  got  to  stick  three  days  of  it." 

Well,  after  more  than  two  years  of  married  life  I  should 
of  been  on  my  guard,  but  he  had  been  there  and  I  hadn't, 
and  so  I  fell  for  it.  But  with  a  mental  reservation  that 
was  justified,  because  after  we  had  actually  crossed  Kansas, 
and  it  proved  to  be  quite  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding, 
I  never  believed  one  word  Jim  Smith  said  about  what  was 
coming  next,  and  even  he  had  to  confess  that  he  must  of 
been  thinking  of  some  other  fillum,  and  this  plot  just 
reminded  him,  if  you  get  that. 

Well,  meanwhile  Missouri  was  full  of  beet  sugar,  and  a 
person  certainly  had  to  wonder  where  the  shortage  come 
in  after  seeing  actually  miles  of  beets,  which  ain't  a  par- 
ticularly inspiring  sight  unless  you  can  see  'em  in  terms  of 
candy  shops,  homemade  desserts  and  thriving  canneries. 
Believe  me,  I  took  them  for  turnips,  and  was  greatly 
worried  to  think  who  would  eat  them  all,  buttered  or  not. 

Also,  it  seems  that  it's  real  work  to  cut  them,  and  after 
you  plow  'em  up  you  got  to  smack  off  the  top  with  a  knife 
and  pile  'em  up,  and  then  a  person  would  say  throw  'em 
in  the  garbage  if  you  were  to  go  by  their  looks. 

But  the  farms  where  they  grew  were  even  bigger  than 
any  we  had  passed  back  East,  as  we  now  commenced  to 
call  Indiana  and  Ohio.  Also,  as  the  farms  grew  bigger  the 
farmhouses  got  smaller,  and  often  it  would  be  only  a  mere 
shack,  but  with  some  big  whale  of  a  car  parked  in  the  yard 
without  exception.  It  was  in  Missouri  that  I  first  began  to 
realize  that  the  farmers  had  so  much  to  do  taking  even 
part  care  of  all  that  land  that  they  hadn't  had  time  to 


136  West  Broadway 

even  think  about  their  house.  But  they  had  a  car,  every 
time. 

Well,  for  a  long  ways  it  was  just  the  same — roads,  dry 
now,  and  might  of  been  made  of  granite.  Then  all  of  a 
sudden  a  little  jewel  city  let  with  perfect  pavings,  ect. 
Then  out  again  into  the  wilds,  where  we  saw  our  first 
unfenced  cattle — just  wandering  around  free  and  Western, 
and  the  sight  of  them  gives  a  person  a  deep  feeling  of  the 
beginnings  of  excitement;  a  sort  of  now-we-are-coming- 
to-it  sense,  as  also  do  the  hound  dogs.  Because  Missouri 
hound  dogs  are  one  thing  no  West  Thirty-ninth  Street 
song  writer  has  exaggerated,  and  they  are  actually  more  so. 
And  ponies  too.  Only  it 's  farmers,  not  cowboys,  that  ride 
them  when  the  roads  are  too  bad  even  for  flivvers,  which 
sometimes  they  actually  are.  Three  ponies  and  four  hound 
dogs  waited  outside  the  butcher  shop  in  Wenzel,  where  we 
ate  our  lunch  with  the  Peterkins,  of  sausage,  near-beer 
and  mince  pie,  but  it  tasted  like  New  York — only  better. 
After  which  we  started  out  again,  making  fifteen  miles  an 
hour,  which  was  our  average  all  the  way  across  that  state. 

But  take  it  all  in  all,  Missouri  was  to  our  trip  like  the 
part  in  the  picture  where  you  are  waiting  for  something  to 
happen.  And  yet  it's  a  funny  thing,  but  in  pretty  near 
every  one  of  the  Missouri  towns  there  lived  a  man  whose 
name  was  known  all  over — either  a  highbrow  or  a  writer 
or  a  scientist  or  something,  names  I  had  seen  in  the  papers 
and  would  naturally  of  supposed  they  came  from  New 
York.  "Came  from"  is  right — came  from  a  perhaps 
yearly  visit  there! 

Of  course,  it  was  kind  of  disappointing  not  to  find  any 
place  that  seemed  like  it  needed  to  be  enlightened  on  my 
great  subject  of  Americanism.  But,  I  thought,  Kansas  is 
coming,  and  the  Wicked  Wild  West,  and  I'll  surely  get  a 
chance  to  spill  some  dope  out  there. 

I  didn't  try  to  do  it  but  once  in  Missouri,  and  when  I 


West  Broadway  137 

did  it  come  about  this  way:  We  had  struggled  over  bad 
roads  all  day,  and  about  nine  o  'clock  at  night  the  soldering 
on  the  radiator  shell  went  blooey  again,  and  of  course  no 
garage — much  less  a  town — in  sight,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
out  of  nowheres  we  stumbled  on  a  broad,  well-lighted 
street  with  lots  of  cars  parked  down  the  middle,  lovely 
public  buildings  and — oh,  heavenly  sight — a  hotel,  a  neat, 
up-to-date,  clean  hotel,  sophisticated  enough  to  call  it- 
self a  tavern.  And  thus,  as  the  poet  says,  we  came  to 
Columbia. 

Well,  we  was  all  so  cross  from  trying  to  be  decent  to  each 
other,  and  so  tired  and  so  hungry,  we  decided  then  and 
there  that  Columbia  was  the  Gem  of  Missouri.  And  the 
funny  part  is  that  next  morning  when  we  got  up  and 
looked  around  we  still  thought  the  same,  which  is  not 
always  the  case,  as  pretty  near  any  town  looks  good  when 
you  are  tired,  but  only  like  a  good  place  to  start  from, 
in  the  morning. 

But  start  is  just  what  we  didn't  do.  The  radiator 
wouldn't  let  us,  and  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that 
Tom  done  it  on  purpose,  but  it's  the  truth  that  the 
Peterkins  hadn't  caught  up  to  us  yet. 

Well,  anyways,  while  we  waited  we  went  out  and  took  a 
look  at  what  turned  out  to  be  a  college  town.  And  with 
no  male  monopoly  on  the  place  either,  and  I  had  always 
rather  thought  the  rah-rah  stuff  was  confined  to  boys, 
having  often  in  the  old  days  played  New  Haven,  Boston 
and  Trenton. 

But  here  it  was  different.  Young  girls  and  young 
fellows  both  was  there — hundreds  of  'em — and  a  fine- 
looking  lot  there  were,  walking  about  on  a  campus  with 
six  great  vine-covered  columns  standing  on  it,  and  it  would 
make  a  beautiful  location  for  a  heart  picture,  only  hard 
to  get  to  for  the  footage  you  could  make  use  of  in  it. 

Well,  anyways,  I  thought  here  is  a  good  place  to  talk 


138  West  Broadway 


to  the  youth  of  the  country  and  instill  good  anti-red  stuff 
into  their  head,  because  in  New  York  there  are  a  lot  of 
redlets  among  the  college  students,  and  catch  'em  young 
is  my  idea. 

Well,  the  more  veil  drawn  over  that  speech  the  better. 
I  had  a  big  audience,  1 11  say  that.  And  I  talked  this  and 
that  for  nearly  an  hour,  arranged  by  one  of  the  teachers, 
and  at  the  end  I  says,  "Are  there  any  questions?  I  would 
be  glad  to  answer  them. ' '  And  what  do  you  think  I  got  ? 
One  boy  says,  "Are  you  a  picture  actress,  Miss  La  Tour?" 
and  another  says,  "Miss  La  Tour,  what  is  a  Bed?"  And 
by  this  I  do  not  mean  they  were  simps,  but  that  they  had 
never  heard  of  either  of  us!  And  what  is  further,  when 
I  explained,  I  myself  was  the  only  one  of  the  two  they 
seemed  much  interested  in. 

I  realized  also,  with  a  shock,  that  of  course  the  people 
round  this  country  would  not  know  about  me  or  about  the 
Beds,  though  they  had  heard  of  Bolshevikis  in  a  dim,  far- 
off  sort  of  way,  because  the  newspapers  we  had  been  seeing 
didn't  give  any  space  to  them,  but  to  things  like  crops  and 
ect.  In  other  words,  they  were  advertising  the  good  things 
we  had,  such  as  the  best  and  biggest  harvest  in  fifteen 
years,  instead  of  the  things  the  Beds  thought  and  did; 
and  it's  the  Eastern  newspapers  gave  them  that  snappy 
title  of  Beds  that's  so  easy  to  remember,  and  you  know 
the  advertising  value  of  a  good  trade  name. 

As  for  myself,  why,  I  guess  it  was  just  a  accident,  that 
boy  never  having  heard  of  me,  but  good  for  my  vanity — 
or  rather  I  should  say  good  for  what  ailed  it,  but  you  know 
what  I  mean. 

Well,  anyways,  the  next  morning  after  my  educational 
speech  on  who  I  was  and  so  forth  the  Peterkins  family 
reached  town,  and  so  our  radiator  shell  healed  up  at  the 
sight  of  them,  and  pretty  soon  we  set  off  out  of  the  Gem  of 
Missouri  and  continued  our  way  through  the  first  state 


West  Broadway  139 

which  had  lived  up  to  stage-manager  specifications,  looking 
for  our  way  to  Kansas  City  and  more  places  which  was 
named  after  Daniel  Boone. 

I'll  say  this  Daniel  was  some  animal  tamer,  the  best 
known  story  about  him  being  the  time  he  went  into  the 
lion's  den.  But  there  are  plenty  of  others  told  on  him 
around  the  Missouri  Eiver,  including  one  about  a  bear's 
den  also,  and  how  he  tamed  the  wild  Indians.  And  it 
seems  he  run  several  hotels  as  well,  or  at  least  we  passed 
them  with  his  name  on  them,  besides  a  ferryboat  which 
took  us  across  the  river  from  Boonville,  a  town  that  was 
also  named  for  him — the  old  original  ferryboat  I  guess  it 
was,  with  a  sort  of  bustle  or  egg  beater  or  something  on 
behind  to  make  it  go,  and  a  whistle  like  an  old  maid  calling 
for  help. 

Yes,  I'll  twitter  that  was  some  boat.  Flat-bottomed, 
it  was,  too,  or  would  of  been,  only  it  was  humped  up  in  the 
middle  and  also  sort  of  slanting  to  one  side.  Jim  said  it 
was  listed  to  the  left,  but  I  had  a  strong  feeling  it  would 
be  listed  among  the  missing  before  we  got  to  the  other  side 
of  the  river.  It  had  what  I  supposed  was  a  donkey  engine 
in  it,  because  it  had  a  kick  like  a  mule  but  never  got  any- 
wheres, and  the  smokestack  looked  like  the  rest  of  the 
boat  ought  to  of  wore  starched  ruffles  and  trousers 
strapped  under  its  boots — if  you  get  me.  You  seen  pictures 
where  the  atmosphere  crowd  wears  that  kind  of  silk  lids. 
But  this  was  not  by  any  means  a  property  boat.  I  would 
of  trusted  it  a  whole  lot  more  if  it  had  of  been,  because 
Goldringer  always  takes  good  care  of  his  stars,  and  doubles 
them  in  all  the  really  dangerous  bits,  even  if  he  does  carry 
a  heavy  insurance  on  them  made  out  in  his  own  name. 

No,  this  was  a  real,  genuine  old  antique — called  the 
Daniel  Boone  after  the  first  owner — and  I  could  see  how 
the  natives  felt  about  how  safe  it  was,  because  a  young 
feller  with  a  horse  and  something  which  I  took  to  be  an  old 


140  West  Broadway 

translation  from  the  early  English  for  buggy  got  on  board 
with  a  bunch  of  lilies  in  his  hand.  I,  of  course,  pointed 
that  out  to  Jim  as  the  ferry  trembled  gently  away  from 
shore  and  commenced  to  float  kind  of  aimlessly  up  and 
down  between  the  chalk  cliffs.  But  Jim  says  it  is  Sunday 
— he  is  probably  taking  them  to  his  best  girl.  But  I  knew 
better. 

"He's  probably  a  decent  young  Christian,"  I  says, 
"and  don't  want  to  die,  even  by  drowning,  without  some 
of  the  usual  formalities." 

But  we  had  quite  a  good  time  on  that  journey  by  water — 
kind  of  &  desperate  good  time  because  of  realizing  it  might 
be  our  last. 

The  Peterkins  was  already  aboard  when  we  got  there, 
in  the  strange,  mysterious  way  a  camping  flivver  has  of 
beating  a  big  car  that  uses  the  hotels  to  it  nearly  every  time. 

Well,  the  Peterkins  were  there,  all  eight  of  them,  and 
the  young  man  and  his  river  horse  and  seagoing  low-cut 
barouche,  or  whatever  it  was,  the  captain  with  his  cap  on 
so  you  could  tell  him  from  the  crew — who  wasn't  allowed 
a  cap — ourselves  and  dog.  And  as  it  took  pretty  near 
half  an  hour  for  Daniel  to  make  up  her  mind  which  part 
of  the  other  chalk  bank  to  hit,  or  to  remember  where  she 
had  berthed  last  visit,  we  had  lots  of  time  to  enjoy  the 
novelty  of  crossing  the  river  in  1841  or  less  and  to  take 
each  other's  picture.  I  took  Jim  sitting  in  the  car,  and 
then  we  took  Tom  and  Welcome  on  the  running  board, 
and  then  they  took  me,  and  we  took  the  Peterkins  and  they 
took  us,  so  we  would  have  the  snaps  as  souvenirs  of  this 
experience,  even  if  you  couldn't  see  any  of  the  ferryboat 
or  the  river  in  the  finder,  but  hoped  in  our  hearts  that 
when  they  were  developed  we  would  mysteriously  see  the 
whole  Missouri,  Daniel  and  all,  in  the  way  a  person  does 
kid  theirself  over  a  camera. 

It  was  just  beyond  here  that  we  come  to  the  first  place 


West  Broadway  141 

in  eighteen  hundred  miles  that  I  could  really  call  a  hick 
town.  It  was  hardly  a  town  at  that,  and  for  two  reasons — 
besides  again  needing  gas — we  stopped  there. 

For  the  first  one,  there  was  a  country  fair  going  full 
time,  and  it  was  also  time  to  eat — we  could  tell  it  the 
minute  the  smell  of  hot  Hamburger  and  sizzling  dogs  hit 
us.  Funny  thing,  but  when  you  are  on  a  long  trip  almost 
any  time  is  lunch  time;  but  this  really  was,  and  by  this 
stage  of  our  journey  we  had  learned  to  eat  when  we  saw 
it  and  run  no  risks. 

Well,  that  fair  was  just  what  I  had  been  looking  for  all 
the  way,  and  at  last  I  seen  it — full  of  vegetables  of  both 
sexes,  and  fruit  and  homemade-pie  contests  and  patch- 
work quilts — and  I  got  out  to  laugh.  I  didn't  get  out  to 
preach  Americanism.  I  was  not  such  a  simp  even  then  but 
that  I  knew  that  was  one  thing  I  didn't  have  to  preach  to 
the  farmer.  Having  his  hands  and  his  money  in  the  actual 
physical  country  itself,  patriotism  was  something  he  would 
already  have  a  faint  suspicion  of,  and  could  literally  give 
me  cards  and  spades  on  it — well,  spades  anyways.  But 
I  did  get  out  to  laugh. 

Well,  never  in  my  life  or  the  place  where  we  deal  on 
Eighth  Avenue  did  I  see  the  fruit  and  vegetables  I  see 
here.  And  I  was  admiring  them  and  listening  in  on  the 
hicks  and  feeling  awful  superior  when  Jim,  who  has  the 
real  masculine  lack  of  shame  about  asking  questions  when 
he  don't  know  something,  started  shooting  me  a  few. 

"Say,  what  are  them  things  like  big  eggs?"  he  says. 

"Why,  eggplant!"  I  says  very  shortly.  And  I  wish  you 
could  of  heard  the  big  hick  standing  beside  me  let  out  a 
roar. 

"Excuse  me,  miss,"  he  says,  "but  them  are  cattle 
squash." 

"Well,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  eggplant,"  I  says, 
feeling  very  cheap. 


142  West  Broadway 

And  then  all  of  a  sudden  I  realized  an  awful  truth. 
Out  here  I  was  the  hick !  No  joke — it  was  a  fact.  Maybe 
the  big  friendly  giant  in  the  snappy  red  tie — snappy  in 
the  sense  of  being  snapped  onto  his  collar  button  with  a 
rubber  band — couldn't  recognize  spinach  a  la  renie  if  he 
seen  it  at  the  Ritz,  or  eggs  Benedictine;  but,  by  heck, 
out  here  I  couldn't  recognize  raw  spinach  or  eggplant! 
So  I  seized,  as  the  poet  says,  opportunity  by  the  forelock 
and  decided  right  on  the  spot,  which  was  a  spot  marked 
by  a  dropped  tomato,  that  here  was  my  chance  to  learn 
something,  and  not  miss  a  single  scrap  in  the  great  big 
interesting  jig-saw  puzzle  which,  if  I  could  ever  get  it 
fitted  together,  would  mean  my  dear  country  and  give  me 
a  real  picture  of  the  whole  of  it. 

"Say,  mister,"  I  says,  smiling  up  at  the  kind  strong 
face  and  keen  blue  eyes  above  that  innocent  red  tie,  and 
using  the  sweet  appealing  look  which  has  won  me  a  million 
friends  from  the  magic  of  the  screen — "say,  mister,  we 
don't  know  a  darn  thing  about  this  stuff.  Would  you 
kindly  wise  us  up  as  to  the  names  of  some  of  it?" 

Well,  he  did.  And  again  I  had  perhaps  best  draw  a  veil, 
because  in  five  minutes  I  found  that  the  only  vegetables 
I  knew  in  their  native  state  was  potatoes,  corn  and  onions. 
On  my  word!  And  here  is  another  thing,  too — that  big 
farmer  didn't  laugh  at  my  ignorance  again.  He  was 
kinder  to  me  than  I  had  intended  being  to  him,  and  I  come 
away  from  that  town  humble.  I  had  seen  a  hick  village — 
yes — with  the  sunlights  and  the  footlights  and  the  spot  all 
turned  on  it  at  once.  And  all  I  could  think  of  was  that 
I  myself  was  kind  of  cheap  and  temporary,  and  that  the 
farmers  weren't  very  funny,  after  all.  There  was  some- 
thing deep  behind  them  that  I  hadn't  understood. 

Honest,  I  know  it  sounds  simple  to  be  made  to  feel 
religion  by  a  potato,  but  it  can  happen,  I  know — it  was 
done  to  me.  I  was  made  to  feel  eternity  in  a  cabbage. 


West  Broadway  143 

And  when  I  realized  how  all  this  stuff  come  out  of  the 
earth  and  that  these  simple  people  done  it — well,  it's  the 
only  time  vegetables  ever  brought  tears  to  my  eyes  except 
once  when  I  tried  to  peel  an  onion. 

But  I  'm  not  kidding — don 't  get  me  wrong.  The  festival 
I  saw  there,  with  fruits  of  the  earth  and  of  the  hands  of 
women,  with  basket  lunches  and  hot  dogs  to  grace  the 
festive  literal  board  on  two  trestles,  was  more  of  a  feast  in 
the  truest  sense  than  any  fifty-dollar-a-cover  Thanksgiving 
party  yet  given  on  Broadway. 

I  carried  the  memory  of  it  in  my  heart  all  through  the 
bumpy,  washed-out  Missouri  roads,  over  long,  pretty 
dreary  detours,  down  to  the  point  where  on  a  high  plateau 
outside  of  Kansas  City  we  said  good  night  to  the  Peter- 
kins,  who  stopped  to  camp  beside  the  schoolhouse,  where 
already  there  were  two  other  evening  fires  gleaming — 
which  meant  that  there  was  water  and  no  "Forbidden" 
signs.  I  sort  of  envied  them  that  they  could  stop  off  there. 
The  other  cars  looked  friendly — a  Climber  from  West 
Virginia  with  a  mother  and  two  fine  big  sons,  and  a  motor- 
cyele  man  and  wife  from  Nebraska.  It  seemed  like  we  were 
to  be  suddenly  torn  away  from  the  free  magic  of  the  road, 
while  it  would  sleep  with  them  through  the  night ;  that  the 
spell  of  their  adventure  would  keep  up  like  a  lovely  play 
with  no  acts  and  no  final  curtain.  But  we  had  to  put  on 
our  hats  and  come  out  into  the  street  of  Civilization,  and 
it  made  me  sad,  although  I  knew  we  would  return  to  the 
road  next  day — to  say  nothing  of  how  sad  it  made  Tom, 
although  Alma  gave  him  a  look  to  put  under  his  pillow. 
I  felt  that  they  had  something  we  weren't  getting — some- 
thing we  lacked  to  make  our  journey  all  of  a  piece,  as  ma 
says.  And  then  I  got  a  comforting  thought.  We  would 
have  something  that  they  would  lack — and  which  looked 
mighty  good  to  me — meaning  a  warm  bath. 

So  we  waved  to  them  and  swirled  down  into  winding, 


144  West  Broadway 

new,  prosperous  Kansas  City — golden  with  its  promise  for 
the  future,  startling  in  its  present  achievement,  and  full, 
to  me,  of  the  excitement  that  comes  of  the  name  it  justly 
give  itself — the  Gateway  to  the  West!  Beyond  Kansas 
City  lay  all  the  dime  novels  of  my  youth  and  Jim's,  riding 
clothes  for  me,  unknown  dangers,  undreamable  beauties — 
the  Thing,  big,  hard  to  put  into  words,  which  I  now  realized 
I  had  been  unconsciously  hurrying  toward  all  this  time. 
Up  to  now  I  had  been  interested — intensely — but  I  had 
been  willing  to  go  fast — fast  as  we  could.  And  now  I 
wanted  to  go  slow,  to  make  the  journey  last,  like  a  kid 
with  a  lolly  pop. 

Well,  anyways,  when  we  got  into  the  hotel  I  ran  down- 
stairs for  a  moment  to  get  a  paper  of  face  powder.  I  went 
alone,  Jim  having  started  to  clean  up,  and  I  needed  it. 
And  as  I  crossed  the  lobby  and  went  out  who  would  I  see 
but  one  of  the  mash  birds  which  had  hung  around  the 
hotel  in  St.  Louis! 

Of  course  there  was  nothing  strange  in  this.  We  was 
often  by  now  running  into  the  same  tourists  again  and 
again.  But  when  we  did  as  a  rule  they  smiled — but  this 
one  did  not.  Neither  did  he  try  a  mash.  Instead  when  he 
caught  sight  of  me  he  deliberately  tried  for  me  not  to  catch 
sight  of  him!  He  pulled  his  cap  down  over  his  eyes  and 
sank  out  of  the  way,  putting  up  a  newspaper  in  front  of 
him.  And  that  was  not  all.  No  sooner  was  I  in  the  drug 
store  than  he  followed  along  the  street  and  looked  in 
through  the  window.  My  back  was  turned,  but  I  could  see 
him  in  a  small  shaving  mirror  on  the  counter,  and  there 
was  no  doubt  but  that  he  had  followed  to  be  sure  it  was 
really  me ! 

All  the  time  while  I  bought  my  powder  and  chinned  with 
the  girl  I  was  thinking  fast.  We  hadn't  seen  these  birds 
all  day.  It  seemed  as  if  they  might  have  come  on  by 
train.  Was  he  really  spying  on  me,  and  if  so,  why? 


West  Broadway  145 

Why  did  he  first  hide  from  me,  and  then  follow  me  ?  And 
then  I  got  a  glimmer.  It  was  just  a  chance,  but  I  ought  to 
make  sure,  because  he  couldn't  be  following  me.  He  must 
be  following  Tom! 


IT  is  a  terrible  thing  to  be  a  picture  actress  in  a  desperate 
situation  with  no  director  to  holler  out  what  to  do  next 
or  say  go  home  now — we  will  shoot  the  rest  to-morrow. 

And  yet  that  is  just  where  I  found  myself  at  the  end  of 
the  fourth  reel,  with  a  mysterious  stranger  spying  on  me 
through  the  window  very  uneasily,  and  no  Jig  Wells  to  yell 
at  the  camera  man  that  will  be  enough,  Billy !  The  only 
thing  that  flashed  through  my  mind  with  any  comfort  was 
that  we  were  registered  as  plain  James  Smith,  wife,  chauf- 
feur and  dog,  or  something.  And  then  I  realized  maybe 
it  only  looked  like  a  cheap  alias  to  that  sleuth,  who  had 
"bull"  written  all  over  him  as  plain  as  print,  and  that  he 
had  probably  already  recognized  my  face.  In  that  case  it 
might  be  he  was  simply  registering  interest  in  a  famous 
artist — and  yet,  no,  that  didn't  hold  water,  because  if  his 
reason  was  innocent  curiosity  why  would  he  try  to  escape 
my  notice  the  way  he  had?  He  had  me  guessing,  all  right; 
and  when,  after  I  had  paid  for  my  stuff  and  walked  boldly 
out  of  the  shop  and  he  had  ducked  again,  I  thought,  well, 
I  will  play  this  bright  young  feller  a  trick,  and  so  I  instead 
of  going  into  the  hotel  walked  down  the  block  where  there 
was  a  garage  with  two  entrances,  but  not  the  one  where 
we  had  left  our  bus.  Well,  I  walked  into  the  office  and 
When  the  polite  young  feller  that  run  it  was  asking  what  I 
wanted  I  slipped  my  handkerchief  under  the  telephone 
book  that  was  laying  on  the  desk. 

"Would  it  be  possible  for  me  to  hire  a  car  by  the  week 
from  you?"  I  says  convincingly,  not  being  for  nothing  an 
actress  since  birth. 

146 


West  Broadway  147 

"Why,  surely!"  says  the  poor  fish,  seeing  a  dream  of  a 
good  deal.  "Dream"  was  right. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "then  we  won't  need  to  send  for  our 
own  car.  I  will  come  back  to-morrow  and  make  arrange- 
ments. ' ' 

Well,  he  bowed  me  out,  and  I  walked  around  the  corner 
and  came  in  the  other  entrance  after  a  minute,  and  there 
was  the  bull,  just  as  I  had  expected,  asking  what  lady  was 
that  and  did  she  have  a  gray  Colby-Droit  with  a  young 
Jewish  chauffeur! 

"Oh,  you  little  Curlylock  Holmes!"  I  says  to  myself. 
' '  Why  was  you  wasted  on  the  mere  art  of  the  silver  sheet  ? ' ' 

And  then  old  beef  face  went  out,  and  the  young  manager 
spied  me. 

"I  forgot  my  handkerchief,"  I  says.  "I  think  I  laid  it 
on  the  desk." 

And  sure  enough  I  had — whatter  you  know  about  that  ? 
After  which  I  run  home  to  the  Muehlebach  as  fast  as  my 
French  heels  would  carry  me  and  broke  the  news  to  Jim, 
who  the  barber  had  just  cleaned  so 's  you  could  see  his  face 
for  the  first  time  in  nearly  two  weeks. 

"The  bulls  are  after  Tom — and  also  probably  us!"  I 
says.  "Oh,  Jim,  what  will  we  do?" 

My  heart  was  nearly  stopped  as  I  said  it,  not  alone  on 
account  of  Tom,  but  also  for  what  the  newspapers  might 
do  to  us  if  we  were  caught,  because  when  a  person's  selfish 
interest  is  at  stake  they  are  apt  to  change  their  minds,  and 
Jim  is  only  human.  But  he  didn't.  He  stopped  with  both 
brushes  suspended  in  midair  and  his  suspenders  heaving 
with  emotion. 

"They  shan't  get  him!"  he  says  excitedly.  "The  kid's 
too  good  for  'em,  and  we'll  put  one  over,  that's  what!" 

' '  But  how  ? "  I  says.    ' '  They  will  trace  him  easy  enough. ' ' 

"Just  you  listen  in  on  this  telephone  call!"  says  Jim. 


148  West  Broadway 

"I  may  not  be  the  sleuth  you  are,  but  in  me  there  has  been 
lost  a  great  scenario  writer!" 

And  at  that  he  went  to  the  telephone,  and  pretty  soon, 
for  their  system  ain  't  like  the  N.  Y.  one,  he  had  Tom  on  the 
wire. 

"Say,  Westman,"  says  Jim,  "do  you  remember  where 
the  Peterkins  are  camping  to-night  ?  I  thought  you  would. 
Well,  just  take  our  car  with  all  the  stuff  in  it  and  go  this 
minute  and  camp  with  them.  Say  you  want  a  night  in  the 
open.  Sure  they  are.  The  missus  just  spotted  one  half 
an  hour  ago,  and  they'll  pinch  you  sure.  We  will  hire  a 
bus  in  the  morning  and  join  you  at  five  o'clock — the  sun 
is  up  by  then — at  the  end  of  the  Boulevard,  where  it  turns 
back  into  the  Old  Trails  road.  I  get  you!  Sure  I  can 
manage  the  small  bags !  Hustle  now !  Good  luck,  and  see 
you  at  sunrise ! ' ' 

And  to  think  I  had  pretty  near  come  to  believe  Jim  had 
outgrown  his  sense  of  romance !  And  after  this  he  put  in 
a  early  call,  and  then  we  hastened  to  put  in  a  little  early 
sleep. 

And  I'll  say  a  little  sleep  is  just  what  it  felt  like  when 
the  telephone  bell  rang  at  4 :30  or  the  middle  of  the  night, 
but  the  clerk  assured  us  it  was  what  the  doctor 'd  ordered. 
We  simply  could  not  get  out  of  bed,  but  did,  not  believing 
or  caring  that  we  had  been  asleep  since  nine  o'clock  the 
evening  before.  Also,  I  couldn  't  for  the  first  few  minutes 
mind  much  if  Tom  was  arrested  or  murdered  or  the  hotel 
was  on  fire  or  want  anything  except  to  go  to  sleep  again. 
After  another  five  minutes  that  clerk,  who  had  experienced 
tourists  before,  rang  again,  and  so  we  actually  did  come  to 
life  this  time,  and  our  semiconscious  condition  gradually 
changed  to  excitement  and  pep,  and  I  at  last  climbed  into 
my  riding  clothes  that  I  had  been  looking  forward  to  for 
so  long  but  hadn  't  up  to  now  felt  Western  enough  actually 
to  do  it. 


West  Broadway  149 

Then,  shivering  and  yawning,  we  stole  down  to  the  all- 
night  lunch  room  as  per  usual  for  our  breakfast,  and 
twenty  minutes  later  we  was  in  the  hired  car  and — the 
glorious  fresh  morning  that  was  all  lit  as  though  with 
ambers — rushing  down  the  endless,  winding  boulevards  of 
the  city,  the  lights  still  twinkling  wanly  below  us,  and 
telling  each  other  how  glorious  it  was,  and  what  boobs 
people  are  to  sleep  late,  and  why  don't  everybody  always 
get  up  at  dawn,  and  they  don't  know  what  they're  missing 
by  not,  and  let's  us  always  do  it  the  rest  of  our  life,  even 
after  we  get  back  home,  and  actually  meaning  it  at  the 
time.  And  then  before  long  we  come  to  the  Peterkins' 
camp  where  it  lay  by  the  schoolhouse,  tucked  into  the  elbow 
of  a  little  hill,  the  camp  fire  already  smoking  and  Tom  in 
the  act  of  frying  the  family  bacon.  Alma  was  laying  the 
table  on  the  running  board,  and  at  the  sound  of  our 
arrival  ma  stuck  first  her  head  and  then  the  rest  of  her 
out  of  the  tent. 

''My  sakes!"  she  says,  evidently  real  glad  to  see  us. 
"You  folks  have  come  just  in  time  to  eat!" 

"We  already  have,"  I  says.  "And  we  got  to  be  on  our 
way  soon." 

Jim  had  meanwhile  paid  off  the  hired  car  and  took  out 
the  bags. 

"I  think  it  was  real  generous  of  you  to  let  Tom  camp 
out  with  us  last  night,"  says  ma  in  her  innocent  way.  "I 
know  how  boys  do  love  it.  And  he's  been  that  useful! 
Wouldn't  let  me  or  Alma  touch  the  supper  dishes!  And 
such  pleasant  company  too!  We're  real  sorry  to  let  him 
go." 

"Well,"  I  thought,  "I  hope  you  would  feel  the  same 
if  you  knew  all " 

And  then,  Tom  having  taken  from  Alma  a  quick  cup  of 
coffee  and  a  slow  good-by,  we  caught  Welcome  and  got  in 
our  own  bus  and  waved  so  long,  we  will  see  you  all  real 


150  West  Broadway 

soon  and  so  forth  and  ectera,  and  started  out  with  the 
law  behind  us  but  the  wilds  before  us. 

Oh,  the  comfort  of  wearing  pants  on  this  kind  of  a  trip ! 
Or  any  other  place,  for  that  matter.  For  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  commenced  to  see  Dr.  Mary  Walker's  point,  and 
that  pants  is  still  another  thing  men  have  that  is  better 
than  women,  and  one  of  the  reasons  why  they  feel  so  free. 
You  will  notice  if  you  look  in  history  books  that  back  in 
old  times  before  even  men  had  a  vote  they  wore  skirts, 
and  the  early  English  kings  and  Roman  emperors  wore 
negligees — no  kidding,  they  really  did!  Long  ones  that 
dragged  around  on  the  floor.  And  I  have  no  doubt  that 
in  those  days  the  kings  set  the  styles  just  as  the  motion- 
picture  actors  do  now.  "Well,  they  wore  not  alone  Mother 
Hubbards,  or  at  best  knee-length  dresses,  much  like  those 
of  the  modern  women,  but  also  long  hair  and  lace  guimps 
and  a  lot  of  other  junk  which  kept  their  minds  off  the 
serious  affairs  of  the  world,  and  I  notice  that  the  more 
free  they  got  from  clothes  the  more  votes  and  ect.  they 
got  too.  A  mere  ride  in  the  park  gives  a  woman  no  idea 
of  breeches,  but  let  her  once  wear  rem  in  a  car  and  the 
free  West  for  two  weeks  and  she  will  have  learned  some- 
thing it  will  be  hard  to  make  her  forget. 

Also,  you  can't  imagine  the  comfort  of  being  dressed 
like  a  bum,  and  Jim  the  same,  and  the  car  not  washed, 
but  the  stuff  tied  on  good  and  secure  with  lots  of  rope 
and  let  'em  think  what  they  like.  Putting  on  my  riding 
pants  seemed  to  cut  me  loose  from  civilization  in  the  sense 
that  I  had  up  to  now  understood  it,  and  I  felt  more  free 
and  natural  than  ever  in  my  life,  all  but  for  the  possibility 
of  them  cops  getting  on  our  trail.  But  presently  we  forgot 
even  that,  having  to  keep  our  minds  first  of  all  on  getting 
clear  of  Kansas  City,  which  is  practically  all  boulevards 
that  go  around  and  meet  themselves  and  are  so  beautiful, 
not  to  say  complicated,  that  the  visiting  stranger  can 


West  Broadway  151 

literally  hardly  steer  themselves  away.  But  at  last  we 
shook  them,  headed  for  Emporia  and  Hutchinson,  and 
sincerely  hoping  to  see  every  part  of  both  cities  except 
their  jails. 

Now  it's  a  funny  thing,  but  true,  that  a  place  seldom 
looks  the  way  a  person  expects  it  to,  and  the  more  you 
have  heard  about  it  and  the  greater  the  number  of  details 
that  have  been  stuck  into  the  description  the  less  it  is  like 
that  when  you  get  there. 

When  we  struck  into  Kansas  all  I  knew  about  it  was 
that  we  had  to  cross  it,  except  for  Jim's  descriptions  which 
had  left  a  very  definite  still  in  my  mind  of  fields  of  jack 
rabbits  who  wouldn't  wait  to  be  looked  at,  and  a  lot  of 
perfectly  flat  space  growing  wheat,  with  flour  sacks  be- 
tween the  rows  to  put  it  into  by  modern  machinery,  and 
grain  elevators  which  I  supposed  would  be  like  hotel 
elevators,  only  of  course  not  gilded,  at  the  E.  R.  stations 
to  take  the  sacks  up  high  enough  to  dump  them  into  the 
trains.  And  outside  of  that  nothing,  for  day  after  day. 

Well,  see  your  oculist  and  then  see  America,  because 
you  got  to  take  a  film  off  the  eyes  of  the  mind  to  see  it 
right.  The  great  oculist,  Experience,  had  shown  Jim  and 
I  how  to  look  these  past  few  weeks,  I  guess,  for  certainly 
Jim  didn't  see  Kansas  right  when  he  saw  it  the  first  time 
from  the  train.  It  goes  through  the  flat  part  of  the  state, 
probably,  because  that  is  where  a  sensible  train  would. 
But  take  it  free  gratis,  Kansas  is  not  flat. 

All  the  way  from  Kansas  City  to  Hutchinson,  where  we 
spent  our  first  night  in  a  Harvey  Hotel  and  was  so  green 
we  didn't  know  what  that  meant,'  we  was  going  over  hills 
and  across  washes.  As  for  the  wheat,  it  was  all  cut  and 
taken  away  some  place,  bags  and  all,  and  nobody  can  tell 
me  those  were  wheat  fields  anyways.  They  were  counties, 
not  fields.  Nobody  need  tell  me  a  field  can  be  that  big — 
no,  not  even  after  I've  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes. 


192  West  Broadway 

But  through  these  endless  stretches  of  stubble,  which 
looked  like  somebody  was  growing  the  world  supply  of 
hairbrushes  on  'em,  the  roads  begun  to  be  better,  giving 
such  ease  to  our  motorists'  hearts  as  only  another  motor 
nut  can  understand;  and  we  begun  also  to  see  another 
kind  of  field,  by  which  I  mean  to  say  oil  fields,  almost  as 
big  and  generous  as  the  wheat  ones,  but  not  so  famed  in 
song  and  guidebook,  as  the  poet  says.  It  sure  does  give  a 
person  a  funny  feeling  to  see  miles  upon  miles  of  oil 
derricks  against  the  sky  line.  They  look  like  somebody 
had  decided  to  build  a  whale  of  a  big  city,  got  as  far  as 
the  steel  construction,  and  then  quit. 

Also,  we  saw  one  jack  rabbit. 

We  slept,  as  I  say,  in  Hutchinson,  finding  room  for  our 
bus  with  some  trouble  on  account  of  the  thousands  of 
cars  that  had  come  in  for  the  state  fair.  I  didn't  suppose 
there  was  as  many  automobiles  of  the  fifteen-hundred  to 
three-thousand-dollar  class  in  the  whole  United  States  as 
I  seen  parked  in  Hutchinson 's  main  street  that  Saturday 
night.  And  though  I  would  of  loved  to  stay  for  the  fair, 
still  we  thought  we  better  not,  on  account  of  the  law, 
which,  although  we  had  by  now  apparently  given  it  the 
slip,  we  felt  we'd  better  continue,  so  we  went  on  our  way, 
after  our  first  Harvey  breakfast,  for  which  a  person  cannot 
be  too  early. 

And  anyways,  I  had  nothing  to  say  to  Kansas.  Why 
should  I  stop  to  talk  anti-soviet  in  a  place  where  they  have 
already  got  for  themselves  all  the  very  cooperative  stuff 
that  the  soviet  has  to  offer,  and  managed  to  get  it  done 
tinder  our  crude,  cruel  and  miserable  democratic  form  of 
government  ?  Believe  me,  after  I  learned  what  their  grain 
elevators  really  meant,  and  heard  about  the  jointly  owned 
harvesting  machinery,  and  the  direct  marketing  methods, 
I  thought  if  only  Trotzky  could  see  this,  wouldn't  he  feel 
cheap  ? 


West  Broadway  153 

It  was  about  this  point  that  I  laid  off  trying  to  reform 
the  West  and  commenced  frankly  learning  from  it  and 
enjoying  it,  for  I  realized  that  the  translation  from  the 
Russian  of  workingmen's  council  meant  nothing  in  the 
world  but  our  old-fashioned  town  meeting! 

Here  is  another  thing:  All  through  Kansas  we  saw  no 
poor.  Nothing  or  nobody  upon  which  professional  mil- 
lionaires could  ease  their  conscience,  and — so  far  as  I 
could  tell — no  blatant  millionaires  either.  What  I  mean 
to  say  is,  there  was  no  mean  little  hovels,  no  slums,  nothing 
that  looked  poor.  Sometimes  there  would  be  a  tiny  shack 
set  high  on  a  windy  brown-and-gold  plateau  in  the  middle 
of  a  big  ranch,  or  on  the  edge  of  a  great  stretch  of  wheat 
stubble;  but  these  looked  striving,  not  poor,  and  that  is  a 
very  different  thing.  In  fact  Kansas  is  populated  by  a 
vast,  superior  bourgeoisie — and  again  that  is  very  Russian, 
because  no  matter  how  they  may  yell  against  the  bour- 
geoisie over  there,  the  net  profs  of  their  plans,  if  they 
was  ever  actually  to  be  carried  out,  would  result  in  a 
bourgeoisie.  You  can't  have  equality  of  distribution  and 
get  away  from  it.  Well,  anyways,  that  is  what  Kansas  has. 

Further,  Kansas  farmers  have  got  the  most  sense  of 
any  farmers  I  seen  yet,  because  they  have  pretty  near 
solved  the  farm  problem,  and  also  it  is  a  Russian  method, 
only  again  they  and  Lenine  don't  know  it. 

What  I  mean  to  say  is,  they  solve  the  farm  problem  by 
not  living  on  their  farm,  but  by  living  together  in  ideal 
little  cities  with  good  hotels,  snappy — no  kidding — real  and 
genuinely  snappy  stores,  both  department  and  specialty, 
a  real  picture  house  or  two,  drug  stores  that  are  finer  than 
anything  we  have  in  the  East,  and  by  commuting  to  their 
farms  instead  of  living  on  the  farm  and  commuting  to  the 
city. 

It  is  so  simple  and  so  wise  that  I  wonder  I  didn't  think 
of  it  myself.  I  mean  to  say  it  is  one  of  the  most  important 


154  West  Broadway 

things  in  America,  what  is  happening  on  those  Kansas 
farms,  and  here  it  goes  on  record  that  I  hope  a  few  other 
states  will  take  notice  the  way  I  did,  and  learn.  I  am 
talking  from  what  I  seen  with  my  own  eyes,  and  as  one 
town  is  a  fair  average  example  of  the  whole  state  I  will 
set  it  down  just  as  it  unrolled  itself  before  me  like  a  seven- 
reel  feature,  and  hope  it  may  prove  of  benefit  to  the 
oncoming  generation  or  something,  as  the  high-class 
writers  say.  Only  please  kindly  remember  that  this  is  all 
truth,  and  no  exaggeration.  I  will  now  begin  with  my 
sample  town  and  how  we  come  into  it. 

Well,  back  East  in  Missouri,  Illinois  and  so  forth,  the 
country  had  been  like  home  a  good  deal,  as  I  guess  I  have 
said — the  same  sort  of  thing  like  you  see  when  you  take  a 
ride  outside  of  Boston  or  New  York  or  Philly,  only  richer, 
bigger  and  more  fertile. 

But  when  we  struck  into  Kansas  we  begun  to  feel  a 
change — subtle  at  first,  but  growing  stronger  and  stronger 
rapidly,  like  a  band  of  martial  music  swinging  down  the 
street.  And  a  person,  meaning  me,  began  to  recognize 
this  country  as  part  of  what  I  had  been  unconsciously 
hurrying  toward — the  big,  rich,  wide,  varied  and  un- 
trammeled  America. 

Well,  we  come  into  this  town  I  'm  telling  you  about  over 
a  series  of  rolling  hills — smooth,  rounded  hills  without  any 
trees  on  them,  but  carpeted  with  close-growing  flowers  of 
purple  and  gold,  like  our  aster  and  goldenrod,  only  so 
short-stemmed  that  they  was  actually  like  one  of  these 
bright,  old-fashioned  worsted  rugs  my  grandma  used  to 
make,  only  big  enough  to  cover  as  far  as  you  could  see, 
and  tempting  you  to  walk  over  the  world. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  we  would  plunge  down  an  incline, 
with  terrifying  but  dramatic  washouts  on  either  side  of 
the  narrow  road,  and  there,  like  a  cluster  of  schoolgirls 
hiding  and  twittering  among  themselves,  would  be  a  grove 


West  Broadway  155 

of  cotton-wood  trees  nestled  in  between  the  soft  bosoms  of 
the  hills.  Then  again  there  would  be  wide  stretches  of 
stubble  where  wheat  had  been — sometimes  lying  on  the 
flat  top  of  an  immense  plateau  that  fell  suddenly  to  the 
dry  bed  of  the  Arkansas  River.  Then  the  road  would 
twist  away  on  a  ledge  of  land  that  faintly  foreshadowed 
the  mesas  we  was  to  see  later,  and  we  could  look  down 
on  the  dry  river  bed — a  mere  streak  of  gray  sand — across 
a  narrow,  crumbly  looking  stretch  of  burned  prairie  grass 
where  cattle  who  seemed  entirely  out  on  their  own  wan- 
dered aimlessly  about  or  nibbled  at  the  bark  of  the  droop- 
ing trees  along  the  sandy  bank  far  below. 

Then  we  would  travel  over  a  desolate  rolling  prairie 
waste  with  more  oil  wells  pointing  to  heaven — and  smelling 
to  heaven,  too,  decorating  the  sky  line,  where  the  clear 
sky  comes  down  like  a  circular  drop,  well  lighted.  And 
then  more  intimate  rolling  billets  carpeted  with  coarse 
bright  flowers,  dry  and  brittle  with  the  hot  sun  when  you 
got  out  to  pick  them.  Then  without  any  warning  of  a 
town — as  usual — we  slid  into  a  triple  colonnade  of  old 
cottonwoods — a  cool,  green-and-yellow  cathedral,  so  shady 
that  the  mud  of  weeks  ago  had  not  dried  on  the  narrow 
double  roadways,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  come  onto 
Main  Street,  and  five  minutes  later  we  found  the  right 
front  spring  was  busted  on  our  car.  "Which  is  how  we 
come  to  be  in  Garden  City  two  whole  days. 

Also,  it  is  how  I  come  to  be  able  to  realize  what  I  now 
know  about  Kansas  farms,  because  I  stayed  in  the  heart 
of  several  hundred  of  them  right  in  that  very  town,  which 
but  for  that  spring  so  luckily  breaking  we  would  of  dashed 
through  without  understanding. 

Well,  now  here  is  the  idea :  On  the  surface  Garden  City 
didn't  have  some  of  the  trimmings  of  the  other  small 
places  we  had  been,  but  the  first  thing  we  noticed  was 
that  it  had  eleven  garages,  which  for  a  burg  of  about  fire 


156  West  Broadway 

thousand  people  is  going  some.  But  do  you  suppose  it 
was  the  tourists  that  pour  through  which  supported  them? 
Yes,  you  do  suppose  so.  And  so  did  we,  and  the  both  of 
us  are  wrong.  The  farmers  support  them,  because  pretty 
near  every  farmer  there  has  two  cars  and  a  truck,  whether 
he  is  a  truck  farmer  or  not. 

Now  some  more.  Pretty  near  every  storekeeper  and 
business  man  in  that  town  is  also  a  farmer ! 

There!  How  do  you  like  that?  Pretty  good,  eh? 
Well,  one  of  the  big  troubles  with  farming  specialties  like 
wheat  and  so  forth,  especially  on  a  big  scale,  is  that  it  is 
what  the  fellow  that  told  me  this  called  seasonal  work, 
which  leaves  a  long  quiet  season  on  the  farmers'  hands. 
So  the  rest  of  the  time,  why  not  run  a  drug  store,  like 
old  Doc  Burns,  or  a  picture  theater  or  a  haberdashery  or 
a  restaurant?  They  can  run  out  to  the  farm  in  their  car 
every  day,  and  they  do  that  as  well.  I  know  it  sounds 
like  a  pipe  dream,  but  it  isn't.  I  seen  it  myself.  Some- 
times a  farm  will  be  run  by  two  fellers  on  shares,  and  they 
spell  each  other  staying  on  the  farm,  which  gives  the  other 
a  chance  to  see  and  know  the  folks  in  town.  And  speaking 
of  fellers,  meaning  mere  men,  you  don't  know  the  half  of 
it,  dearie! 

I  went  into  a  department  store  in  this  town  to  buy  a 
pair  of  gloves  I  saw  in  the  window — a  pair  of  standard 
make  of  the  same  identical  brand  I  would  of  asked  for 
on  the  Avenue  at  home,  and  I  got  talking  with  the  girl 
which  sold  them  to  me.  She  was  a  pleasant-faced,  quiet 
girl — not  a  chicken,  but  fresh  and  attractive,  and  with 
her  hair  done  in  the  regulation  cootie  coops.  I  saw  them 
cootie  coops  the  whole  ways  across  the  country,  by  the 
way,  and  they  give  me  a  jolt  of  surprise  every  time.  Well, 
anyways,  I  got  acquainted  with  this  girl,  and  what  do  you 
think  she  and  two  girl  friends  which  was  also  working 
as  clerks  in  that  same  store  was  doing? 


West  Broadway  157 

They  had  each  of  them  taken  up  a  quarter  section  of 
grazing  land  ten  miles  out  of  town — that  is  to  say,  a 
hundred  and  sixty  acres  apiece,  adjoining  ground,  had 
put  up  a  frame  house  where  the  three  corners  come  to- 
gether, so  that  they  could  all  three  live  on  their  land  as 
the  law  requires,  yet  live  together,  and  they  commuted 
to  work  every  day.  They  had  recently  proved  claim,  and 
already  one  girl  had  been  offered  three  thousand  dollars 
for  her  property. 

Now  that's  American  womanhood,  enterprise,  courage 
and  opportunity  for  you!  Beyond  them  few  well-chosen 
words  I  personally  pass  no  comments  or  remarks  upon  it. 
Pass  them  for  yourself,  but  whatever  you  say,  remember 
it 's  a  true  fact !  And  what  is  more,  it  is  not  unique. 
There  is  other  Western  girls  got  property  that  way  in 
other  towns.  I  am  merely  giving  you  a  sample.  Yet  I 
can 't  help  contrasting  it  with  a  girl  I  know  back  home  who 
was  so  relieved  when  she  paid  the  last  installment  on  her 
Liberty  Bond,  because  now  she  could  sell  it  and  pay  the 
last  installment  on  her  fur  coat! 

Main  Street  in  Garden  City — and  a  dozen  others  like  it 
— is  as  wide  and  as  well  paved  as  Fifth  Avenue.  At  one 
end  is  a  park.  The  people  own  this  park,  and  they  know 
it  and  enjoy  it  and  use  it.  They  go  out  there  and  lie  on 
the  grass.  They  take  a  book  or  a  paper  out  there  to  read. 
There  are  no  Keep-Off-the-Grass  signs  in  the  public  parks 
west  of  the  Mississippi.  The  folks  don't  need  'em.  But 
if  they  use  their  parks  they  are  pretty  fair  about  not 
abusing  'em,  too — and  they  sure  are  pretty,  I  mean  the 
parks  are.  Generally  there  is  a  courthouse  in  the  middle. 
The  courthouse  and  the  schoolhouse  are  certain  to  be 
really  fine  buildings  in  any  small  town  in  the  Southwest, 
no  matter  what  else  they  may  have  forgotten  to  build. 
But  I  love  their  parks.  It  gives  such  a  pleasant,  easy 


158  West  Broadway 

feeling  to  your  heart  to  know  you  can  pull  your  bench 
any  place  you  want  to  in  it. 

And  the  folks!  When  I  think 'of  Kansas  folks  I  want 
to  cry  and  laugh  and  my  heart  swells  all  up.  Because 
they  are  so  kind,  so  warm  and  friendly — so  alive.  And, 
oh,  how  tall !  Really  it 's  the  truth,  I  saw  more  tall  people 
there  than  anywheres  in  my  life  before.  I  won't  forget 
in  a  hurry  the  three  six-foot,  chestnut-haired,  deep- 
bosomed  beauties  who  waited  on  table  at  that  Garden  City 
Hotel.  And  speaking  of  hotels,  most  of  these  towns  need 
good  ones,  and  the  man  who  builds  a  chain  of  them  from 
Ohio  to  New  Mexico  will  make  a  fortune  off  the  tourists. 
The  town  folks  are  home  people  and  don't  need  or  want 
hotel  life,  which  is  why  the  hotels  are  so  poor,  I  guess. 

Well,  anyways,  these  Kansas  girls  were  the  very  biggest, 
handsomest  and  quietest  I  seen  anywheres.  They  would 
be  no  good  in  musical  comedy — they  are  too  big.  But 
they  just  naturally  go  grab  off  quarter  sections  of  land — 
you  can  tell  they  would  by  looking  at  them.  And  the  men 
the  same.  I  don't  know  does  the  big  farms  make  the  big 
people  or  the  big  people  the  big  farms,  but  I  know  that 
they  are,  if  you  get  me  at  all.  And  their  hearts  are  big 
as  the  rest  of  them.  Oh,  I  love  Kansas — I  love  it !  I  '11 
always  want  to  go  back  there! 

Well,  on  the  second  day  of  our  breakdown  I  was  sitting 
in  the  park  at  noontime  with  the  thermometer  ninety  in 
the  shade  and  the  temperature  of  the  book  I  was  reading 
something  over  a  hundred  and  twenty,  because  it  was  the 
bedroom  scene  in  Juliet  and  Romeo,  which  I  was  taking 
this  opportunity  to  read  some  of  it,  and  also  to  study  up 
a  little  in  my  grammar  and  dictionary,  because  I  am  very 
imitative  and  I  was  already  talking  like  Kansas  folks,  and 
I  realized  my  Newyorkese  was  pretty  well  nicked,  and  in 
self-defense  I  had  better  learn  a  little  standard  stuff. 

Well,  anyways,  I  was  sitting  there  reading  and  dream- 


West  Broadway  159 

ing,  and  Jim  was  over  across  the  street  looking  to  be  sure 
the  bus  wasn't  ready  yet,  which  of  course  it  wasn't,  when 
who  would  drive  up  in  a  big  car  but  old  Doc  Burns,  who 
had  helped  me  get  hep  to  the  town  such  a  lot  when  we  got 
acquainted  in  his  drug  store  which  he  ran  on  the  side  of 
a  few  hundred  across  of  wheat  in  his  idle  moments.  And 
whatter  you  know  if  he  didn't  have  a  bag  of  golf  clubs  in 
that  car  when  he  stopped  it  at  the  curb ! 

' '  Hello,  Mrs.  Smith ! "  he  says.  '  *  You  and  your  husband 
care  to  run  out  to  the  country  club  and  go  around  once? 
I  generally  put  in  my  noon  hour  like  this. 

Can  you  beat  it  ?  Here  was  my  wild  and  woolly  "West — 
my  uncivilized,  wide  prairie  town  that  I  had  left  N.  Y.  to 
inform  about  things  in  general!  To  see  the  doc  beaming 
over  the  edge  of  his  big  bus,  a  black  ribbon  hanging  from 
his  eye  glasses,  you  would  of  thought  he  was  the  editor  of 
a  highbrow  magazine  out  for  a  little  recreation.  Mentally 
I  threw  up  my  hands.  This  was  the  last  thing  I  had 
expected. 

But  of  course  I  said  yes,  and  went  across  to  get  Jim,  who 
was  standing  watching  Tom  help  the  blacksmith  with  the 
spring  and  wearing  a  cow-puncher's  hat  he  had  bought 
that  morning  with  a  collar  on  it  that  would  do  for  Welcome 
when  Jim  got  tired  of  the  hat.  Well,  I  told  Jim  of  the 
invitation  we  had  and  he  nearly  dropped  dead. 

"Have  they  got  a  country  club  here?"  he  says,  thanking 
the  doc. 

"Well,  we've  got  no  clubhouse  yet,  but  we  got  a  nine- 
hole  course,"  says  the  doe,  "and  the  clubhouse  will  come 
along  soon." 

Well,  in  the  meanwhile  we  came  along,  digging  our 
clubs  out  from  under  everything  in  our  car,  because  by 
now  we  never  took  anything  out  of  the  car  at  night  that 
we  didn't  actually  need,  but  left  it  in  the  garage,  hoping 
the  darn  stuff  would  all  be  stolen  by  morning,  but  it 


160  West  Broadway 

never  was — not  even  when  we  left  it  on  a  street  and  went 
in  to  eat. 

Well,  we  put  ourselves  and  clubs  into  the  doc's  car,  and 
then,  believe  me,  he  showed  his  Western  blood,  because  he 
drove  that  bus  like  it  was  a  mean  hoss,  and  off  we  went 
into  the  flower-carpeted  hills,  turning  abruptly  from  the 
road  into  a  prairie — and  there  we  was,  on  the  golf  course  I 

At  least  so  the  doc  said,  and  gradually  we  seen  it  was, 
although  there  wasn't  much  to  distinguish  it  from  the 
surrounding  hills  except  the  greens,  which  was  made  of 
white  sand.  Otherwise  it  was — prairie! 

Well,  I  and  Jim  had  learned  the  motions  of  golf  in  order 
to  do  a  society  country-life  fillum,  but  the  doc  played  it 
because  he  liked  it,  and  what  he  did  to  us  was  a  crime. 
He  beat  us  eight  down — or  up,  whichever  is  correct.  Of 
the  actual  game  the  less  said  the  better,  but  of  the  course — 
the  score  was  about  like  this: 

First  hole:   Two  prairie  dogs  beat  us  down  it. 

Second  hole :   Jackrabbit  crossed  in  haste. 

Fourth  hole :  Jim  and  the  doc  killed  a  rattlesnake  right 
by  the  pin. 

Sixth  hole :  Doc  pointed  out  dead  rattler  he  had  killed 
there  yesterday  noon. 

Seventh  hole:  Gopher  started  to  watch  the  putting  but 
changed  its  mind  and  beat  it  before  we  really  got  started. 

Eighth  hole:    Two  lizards  went  down  it  hurriedly. 

Ninth  Green:  Completely  destroyed  by  prairie  dogs 
overnight. 

Now  this  is  a  true  story,  or  as  near  true  as  a  mere  woman 
can  get,  and  if  anybody  thinks  I  am  telling  it  to  make  fun 
of  that  golf  course  they  got  another  guess  coming.  I  tell 
it  because  of  how  it  shows  what  these  Westerners  will  do 
in  the  face  of  the  wilderness. 

The  doc  knew  what  the  place  lacked  as  good  as  we  did — 
he  was  no  fool.  But  he  also  knew  that  great  things  could 


West  Broadway  161 

be  accomplished,  and  we  believed  him.  And  he  is,  after 
all,  only  a  good  sample  of  many  another  such  spirit  in  many 
another  such  town  in  this  broad  land.  I  only  cite  him 
because  I  knew  him. 

We  talked  of  the  future  and  saw  visions  of  it  through 
his  eyes  as  we  walked  back  toward  his  car — hoping  for  no- 
more  rattlers  and  grateful  for  high  boots.  And  as  we 
walked  and  talked  a  second  car  drove  in  and  parked,  and 
from  it  got  a  tall,  lean  man — a  man  with  a  flannel  shirt, 
wide-brimmed  hat,  high  boots  and  a  gun  on  his  hip — the 
real  Western  figure  at  last!  He  came  directly  toward  us 
— a  handsome  man  with  a  clean-cut  Yankee  face — but  at 
the  doc's  words  my  heart  froze.  I  seemed  to  know  what 
they  would  be  almost  before  he  spoke  them. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith,"  says  the  doc,  "this  is  our 
sheriff,  Mr.  Bird — the  best  six-gun  man  in  the  county  1" 


XI 

THE  sheriff  gave  a  little  Hitch  to  his  gun  belt,  removed 
the  broad-brimmed  hat  and  acknowledged  the  intro- 
duction with  a  keen  glance  of  his  blue  eyes  that  seemed 
to  go  right  through  us  and  see   Tom  Westman  hiding 
behind  us. 

''I've  been  trying  to  meet  you  people  ever  since  I  heard 
you  were  in  town,"  he  said  evenly.  "And  what  I  came 
out  for  was  something  special." 

Well,  do  you  get  how  I  felt  when  he  pulled  that  line? 
You  do  not!  Not  unless  you  been  recently  evading  the 
law.  And,  believe  me,  when  a  remark  like  that  is  made 
by  a  regular  Western  he-sheriff  with  a  gun  on  him  there 
is  a  lot  of  extra  feeling  comes  natural  to  you.  But  this 
sheriff  turned  from  us  to  Doc  Burns. 

"I  came  out,  doc,"  says  the  sheriff,  "to  see  how  you 
liked  that  new  bunker  of  mine  I  been  building?" 
'"  He  pointed  with  pride  to  a  ridge  of  earth  right  behind 
us,  and  we  turned  to  admire,  the  doc  perfectly  sincerely, 
but  as  for  me,  all  I  could  think  of  was  a  sigh  of  relief  that 
the  bunker  was  what  he  had  come  for.  At  the  same  time 
there  was  a  dash  of  disappointment  at  finding  the  first  real 
Wild  Western  sheriff  I  had  seen  absorbed  in  improving  a 
golf  course — of  which,  it  turned  out,  he  was  vice-president ! 

' '  There  goes  the  old  West ! "  I  thought  to  myself.  ' '  We 
have,  alas!  no  more  of  it  outside  of  what  Bill  Hart  does." 

But  I  thought  too  soon.  It  seems  this  Sheriff  Bird  was 
good.  He  could  play  both  parts  without  being  doubled. 
Because  when  we  was  driving  back  to  the  city  the  doc 
mentioned  casually  that  the  sheriff  had  the  week  before 
taken  a  lunatic  single-handed  off  a  train. 
162 


West  Broadway  163 

"This  nut  had  a  gun,"  says  the  doc,  "and  had  held  up 
four  passenger  coaches.  When  the  train  stopped  to  let 
Bird  on  he  was  going  to  get  Bird,  too,  but  Bird  shot  the 
gun  out  of  the  feller's  hand  and  took  him  easily.  Bird, 
he's  the  best  six-gun  man  in  the  county,  I'm  telling  you!" 

Well,  I  was  glad  he  was,  because  here  I  seemed  to  see  a 
new  sort  of  ambidextrous  West,  if  you  can  get  the  idea; 
a  West  which  could  at  once  be  wild  and  tame — hold-ups 
or  golf-links,  they  took  'em  as  they  come.  But  then  again 
I  would  of  felt  less  restless  if  I  could  of  been  sure  that 
sheriff  was  exclusively  interested  in  his  Wild  West  combi- 
nation menagerie  and  golf  course.  It  was  plain  the  sleuth 
I  spotted  at  Kansas  City  had  either  lost  us  or  shot  by  us, 
never  dreaming  we  would  stop  off  in  such  a  small  place, 
and  not  thinking  of  repairs,  and  apparently  having  said 
nothing  to  Bird. 

But  having  seen  that  keen-eyed  sporting  sheriff,  I  didn't 
feel  any  real  sorrow  when  we  got  back  to  the  hotel  and 
Tom  told  us  that  the  bus  was  ready  and  packed.  So  I 
took  a  photo  of  Jim  and  the  doc  and  Welcome  standing  in 
front  of  the  car,  and  then  Jim  took  one  of  me  and  the  doc 
and  Welcome  standing  in  the  same  place,  so  we  would 
have  something  to  remind  us  of  Garden  City,  and  then 
the  next  thing  we  took  was  our  departure. 

It's  a  funny  thing,  but  from  here  on  I  find  myself  kind 
of  up  against  it  when  I  try  to  tell  about  what  I  seen — I 
mean,  saw.  I  wish,  and  wish  hard,  somebody  had  given  me 
a  grammar  at  the  date  they  give  me  my  first  automobile — 
meaning  myself,  for  I  have  bought  most  of  my  own  presents 
with  my  own  money,  which  is  more  often  the  case  with 
stage  and  screen  girls  than  the  public  seems  to  think,  and 
it's  the  form  of  investment  they  make — especially  the 
jewelry — and  fewer  managers  do  personal  favors  than  do 
sound  business. 

Well,  anyways,  I  wish  that  I  had  bought  myself  a  little 


164  West  Broadway 

education  the  time  when  I  bought  myself  that  diamond 
bar-pin  with  the  first  bunch  of  kale  I  earned  that  didn't 
have  to  be  planted  in  the  home  yard.  Then  I  could  put 
down  my  thoughts  on  America  better.  Because  writing  a 
piece  about  the  country  up  to  where  the  real  West  com- 
mences is  like  writing  about  business,  and  it  is  pleasant, 
but  concerns  everyday  things — things  it  is  easy  to  speak 
about.  Trying  to  write  about  the  Far  West  is  like  trying 
to  write  religion.  You  can't  do  it.  And  yet  if  you  have 
seen  that  part  of  the  country  you  have  to  try.  There  are 
deep  things  in  my  heart  as  I  look  back  on  the  trip,  but 
how  can  I  tell  them  on  paper?  How  could  I,  even  if  I 
knew  the  words?  I  keep,  in  my  mind,  going  back  to  that 
waiter  on  Sixth  Avenue,  and  like  him,  think  there  is  no 
way  to  tell  the  ones  which  haven't  seen  this  country  what 
it  is  like.  "Buy  'em  a  ticket."  By  gosh,  that  waiter  said 
a  mouthful! 

Well,  anyways,  out  we  went  from  Garden  City  early  in 
the  afternoon,  humping  along  a  pretty  rotten  road  to  a 
place  in  the  middle  of  Nowhere  called  Syracuse,  where  we 
found  a  hotel  like  a  stage  one,  only  real,  with  a  bath,  good 
food  and  everything,  and  so  we  thought  we  would  hold 
that  hotel  right  down  and  not  let  it  get  away  from  us  or 
be  lost  on  the  prairie. 

This  hotel  had  tiled  private  baths,  art  furniture,  silver 
and  linen  like  a  private  home,  and  fresh  white  carnations 
on  the  tables — with  food  to  match,  I  may  add.  It  was 
some  hotel,  to  be  all  by  itself,  I  felt,  like  it  had  been 
dropped  out  of  heaven  onto  the  prairie.  A  Harvey  House 
it  was,  and  you  got  to  hand  it  to  them  Harveys — Moe 
Harvey,  that  advertised  and  give  his  name  to  the  desert, 
and  his  brother  Fred,  who  put  private  baths  onto  it! 

Well,  that  night  we  stayed  there,  sitting  out  under  the 
vine-covered  colonnade,  Welcome  laying  peaceful  and  ex- 
hausted at  our  feet,  and  feeling  a  strange  new  sense  of 


West  Broadway  165 

space — space — of  the  world  having  no  edge  to  it,  of  there 
being  no  horizon  out  there  ahead  of  us  in  the  violet  night, 
but  only  a  great  big  Promise. 

Well,  next  morning  we  started  out  to  look  for  it,  and 
headed  for  La  Junta,  and  don't  ask  me  what  it  means,  I 
forgot  to  ask  the  hotel  clerk.  And  I  never  did  know  what 
them  foreign  names  meant,  because  Jim's  Spanish  turned 
out  to  be  the  kind  you  sing  a  naughty  song  in  after  making 
sure  there  is  nobody  in  the  room  will  understand  it — for 
fear  they  will  be  shocked,  of  course ! 

Anyways  we  headed  for  La  Junta,  which  from  the  name 
whatever  it  means,  sounds  like  it  ought  to  be  in  Mexico, 
but  actually  is  in  Colorado.  Coming  out  of  Syracuse,  we 
crossed  a  high  plateau,  and  before  we  had  gone  a  very  long 
ways  lit  into  a  sand  storm,  most  of  the  sand  coming  from 
the  bottom  of  the  Arkansas  River.  We  had  to  put  up  the 
curtains,  and  that  give  the  wind  such  a  hold  on  us  that  I 
thought  my  child  would  be  an  orphan  and  ma  could  forever 
bring  him  up  wrong,  for  we  would  soon  be  blown  off  the 
edge  and  into  an  arroyo,  which  is  Spanish  for  place-where- 
a-river-ought-to-be-and-sometimes-is.  At  least  I  called  the 
first  two  we  crossed  that,  but  later  learned  to  refer  to  it 
properly  as  a  wash. 

Well,  pretty  soon  the  thing  which  was  supposed  to  be  a 
road  took  a  turn  and  with  a  sudden  dip,  with,  of  course,  no 
danger  or  caution  sign,  as  that  is  one  thing  the  West  does 
not  as  yet  grow — well,  the  road  took  it,  and  down  we  went 
into  not  alone  a  wash  but  into  a  flock  of  not  over  five  or  six 
thousand  sheep,  including  a  black  one.  No,  I  don't  mean 
hundred,  I  mean  thousand.  They  filled  that  wash  from 
edge  to  edge.  They  stood  on  places  that  couldn  't  be  stood 
on ;  they  blocked  the  road  and  filled  the  sky  line  and  baa-ed 
in  every  voice  from  the  big  buck's  tenor  to  the  deep  bass 
of  the  infant  sheep.  And  they  had  no  sense,  but  run  in 
front  of  us,  or  up  out  of  the  way  over  places  that  was  so 


i66  West  Broadway 

steep  you  would  of  thought  they  was  flies.  On  the  top  of 
the  wash  stood  the  shepherd,  his  cloak  sweeping  forward  in 
the  wind,  his  head  bent,  his  staff  held  like — oh,  just  like  the 
pictures  in  the  Bible !  There  was  all  about  us  a  storm  not 
only  of  wind  and  sand  but  of  sheep — sheep,  sheep  every- 
wheres!  And  yet  they  say  there  is  a  shortage  of  wool.  I 
don't  believe  it!  I  believe  they  are  leaving  it  stay  on  the 
lambs  for  higher  prices,  that's  what! 

Then  as  suddenly  as  we  had  plunged  into  the  crowding 
confusion  of  that  first  deep  wash  we  plunged  out,  leaving 
the  herd  behind,  a  melting  mass  of  shapeless  objects  that 
in  the  distance  looked  as  if  the  round  dried  bushes  of  the 
plain  had  come  to  life  and  started  revolving.  And  the 
storm  died  down,  too,  as  if  a  window  had  been  shut  on  it, 
and  at  the  same  time  we  struck  Lamar  and  realized  that 
we  was  in  Colorado. 

We  realized  this  principally  because  of  being  suddenly 
upon  a  concrete  example  of  what  a  road  should  be.  I  mean 
to  say,  it  was  a  concrete  road  and  a  bear !  We  could  hardly 
believe  it.  It  didn  't  seem  right,  somehow,  to  ride  so  smooth 
and  easy  and  fast.  It  wasn't  natural  to  go  over  fifteen 
miles  a  hour,  and  we  kept  grinning  at  each  other  and  say- 
ing how  long  will  it  last?  Don't  crow  too  soon,  kid,  this 
must  be  a  dream — what  is  this,  a  road  ?  And  so  forth  and 
cetera,  kidding  each  other  along  and  never  dreaming  it 
would  last. 

But  it  did.  It  lasted  so  well  that  we  got  into  this  La 
Junta  place,  which  was  not,  as  I  had  expected,  made  up  of 
cigarettes,  patios  and  guitars,  but  a  big  railway  junction, 
at  noon  time.  So  we  spotted  a  come-and-get-it  shack,  and 
having  got  it,  started  for  the  country  where  the  grades  and 
the  price  of  gas  at  the  same  point  begin  to  get  steep. 

All  the  hot  afternoon  we  traveled,  passing  principally 
prairie  dogs,  which  are  hard  to  pass  at  first  because  they 
are  so  cute  and  tame.  And  they  are  tame  because  they 


West  Broadway  167 

know  darn  well  you  can't  catch  them,  even  if  they  let  you 
come  real  near.  They  are  like  little  decent  humans,  so 
respectable  and  prosperous  and  inquisitive.  I  would  of 
loved  to  take  one  home  for  a  pet  to  Junior,  but  gave  it 
up  after  the  fifth  attempt,  and  realized  it  would  be  more 
worth  while  to  take  him  something  he  could  really  use 
and  have  in  later  life,  and  was  easier  to  catch,  like  a 
Indian  blanket  or  something. 

"Well,  on  and  on  we  rode  through  herds  of  prairie  dogs 
and  herds  of  cattle,  and  what  they  eat  is  a  mystery,  or 
drink  either,  for  you  can't  see  a  thing.  But  they  must, 
because  they  are  all  fat  and  healthy.  But  no  food  was  kept 
for  them  in  the  ranch  houses — that 's  a  cinch,  because  these 
were  so  small  the  rancher  could  just  about  get  in  himself, 
and  that  was  all.  All  until  late  in  the  afternoon  I  looked 
across  the  nothingness  and  saw  what  I  thought  was  a 
gigantic  cloud  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  earth.  It  didn't 
shift  the  way  a  cloud  does,  but  the  nearer  we  come  to  it 
the  larger  it  grew,  and  other  shapes  sprang  up  like  ghosts 
behind  it.  Then  the  sun  reached  a  long  finger  through  the 
clouds  and  touched  the  top  of  the  first  gigantic  shape, 
turning  it  red  gold.  I  give  a  kind  of  gasp  inside  myself 
and  seized  Jim's  arm,  the  electric  thrill  going  from  my 
hand  into  him,  too,  I  guess,  for  he  made  a  funny  little 
sound. 

' '  The  Rockies ! "  I  says.    ' '  Oh,  lookit ! ' ' 

And  I  was  right.  We  got  out  the  road  map,  and  sure 
enough  they  were !  You  could  tell  by  the  markings  where 
it  looked  like  a  woolly  caterpillar  had  been  walking  around 
the  names  of  some  of  the  places — Thatcher — Erie— Trini- 
dad. Then  we  could  see  three  sister  peaks,  lower  and  nearer 
than  the  others,  but  high  enough,  goodness  knows,  and 
making  me  laugh  when  I  remembered  the  Alleghanies. 

"Jim,"  I  says,  "have  we  got  to  cross  them?" 


168  West  Broadway 

"You  said  it!"  says  Jim.  "Unless  you  want  to  turn 
around  and  go  home ! ' ' 

"But  we  can't  cross  'em!"  I  says,  feeling  weak  in  my 
middlex  "Nothing  could  cross  'em — they're  too  high! 
Suppose  the  bus  won't  take  the  grades!" 

"Oh,  I  think  it  will,"  says  Tom.  And  somehow  I  had 
more  confidence  in  his  opinion  than  in  Jim's.  It  seemed 
more  professional,  and,  besides,  I  wasn't  married  to  him — 
and  any  married  woman  will  know  the  feeling. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  mind  going  up,"  I  says. 
"But  think  of  coming  down!  Do  you  believe  the  brakes 
will  hold?  Oh,  just  suppose  they  don't!" 

' '  They  won 't ! "  says  Jim,  and  for  once  Tom  agreed  with 
him.  "Can't  use  the  brakes  at  all  on  the  sort  of  stuff  we 
will  find  over  there." 

"That's  right!"  says  young  Westman.  "And  probably 
we'll  have  to  readjust  the  carburetor  to  get  through  the 
altitudes." 

' '  Can 't  we  go  around  them  someways  ? "  I  says  anxiously. 

"Nope!"  says  Jim  with  a  strange  relish — and  I'll  tell 
the  world  it 's  his  actually  liking  to  take  risks  is  what  makes 
him  screen  so  well  in  them.  But  not  so  sister! 

"Oh!"  I  says.  "And  I  thought  this  was  going  to  be  a 
pleasure  trip!" 

"It  is,  but  it's  not  a  kindergarten  outing,"  says  Jim. 
"Believe  me,  crossing  this  man's  country  is  no  hardship, 
but  it's  no  cinch,  neither!" 

And  at  that  time  I  didn't,  as  the  poet  says,  know  the 
half  of  it !  All  I  thought  was  that  somebody  had  ought  to 
of  invented  asbestos  brake  bands,  or  some  kind  that  would 
not  burn  out,  no  matter  where  a  person  took  their  car, 
and  that  I  would  wait  to  cross  the  continent  a  second  time 
until  they  had  been  invented,  and  also  self-adjusting 
carburetors  and  automatic  accident  preventers  of  some 
kind.  But  in  the  meanwhile  all  these  thoughts  of  mine, 


West  Broadway  169 

including  best  wishes  for  the  future  and  dreams  of  home, 
baby  and  ma,  and  a  solemn  wonder  as  to  why  had  I  wanted 
to  Americanize  the  country  anyways  when  I  couldn't  find 
anything  to  work  on  and  ectera,  didn't  keep  them  moun- 
tains from  coming  nearer — or  rather  from  our  coming 
nearer  to  them. 

Yet  it's  a  funny  thing,  but  in  a  way  the  further  we 
drove  according  to  the  speedometer  the  further  away  those 
Trinidad  mountains  seemed  to  be.  No  matter  how  we 
twisted  back  and  so  forth,  over  hill  and  down  ditch,  through 
ranches  with  trees  on  some  of  them  now,  and  trees  we 
could  recognize — almost;  Christmas  trees,  and  I  think 
maples,  but  I  don't  know  is  that  really  the  right  name, 
never  having,  like  a  boob,  taken  trouble  to  learn  these 
things  at  home. 

But  we  got  a  more  homey  feeling  here,  for  all  of  that,  and 
the  grandeur  of  the  mountains  that  was  so  impressive  when 
we  saw  them  a  long  ways  off  lessened  as  we  actually  got  in 
among  them — we  couldn't  see  the  mountains  for  the  hills, 
as  somebody  has  so  truly  said.  But  to  sniff  in  the  air  was 
like  drinking  wine.  It  made  you  tingle  all  over,  and  im- 
patient because  the  bus  didn't  go  faster.  And  then  we 
started  going  down.  Not  such  a  steep  incline,  but  a  end- 
less one,  going  around  and  around  in  circles,  like  we  were 
slowing  up  on  the  inside  of  a  vast  autodrome.  The  night 
came  down  upon  us  as  if  somebody  had  turned  off  the 
switch — the  sudden  way  it  does  out  there  in  the  Rockies. 
And  far  below  us  the  lights  of  Trinidad  twinkled,  as  distant 
and  apparently  as  unreachable  as  a  perspective  city  on  the 
back  drop  of  a  stage  setting,  the  great  electric  sign  with  the 
city's  name  in  letters  of  fire  blazing  now  above  us,  now  in 
front  and  again  behind  us  as  we  dropped  down  and  down 
to  the  city  itself — only  in  the  end  to  get  there  after  all  the 
American-plan  dining-rooms  was  closed,  and  we  had  to  eat 


170  West  Broadway 

at  one  of  those  places  where  they  have  what  are  called 
short  orders  but  which  take  so  long,  if  you  get  me. 

After  which  there  was  nothing  to  do  except  buy  twenty 
post  cards  of  Kit  Carson's  statue,  mail  them  to  the  folks 
as  a  quietus  to  the  conscience  for  being  too  sleepy  to  write 
a  real  letter,  and  able  to  think  of  nothing  to  put  on  the 
postals,  either,  except  "Lovely  weather  here,  fine  trip, 
wish  you  were  with  us,"  which  we  had  already  written  to 
them  on  the  soldier's  monument  of  about  ten  other  places. 
And  while  Jim  and  myself  were  doing  so  in  a  drug  store, 
which  also  supplied  ink,  in  came  Tom,  and  I  noticed  he 
picked  out  not  Kit  Carson  nor  even  a  Wild  Buffalo,  but 
a  card  with  a  blue  butterfly  sitting  on  a  gloved  hand  with 
also  some  silver  snow  and  To  My  Fair  One  on  it;  but  of 
course  I  passed  no  remark,  because  I  was  getting  real  fond 
of  the  boy. 

And  so  Jim  and  I  merely  said:  "Six  sharp  to-morrow 
morning,  Tom,  because  we  want  to  surely  get  started  by 
nine.  This  time  you  won't  have  to  wait  for  us.  Good 
night."  And  so  to  bed. 

Next  morning  we  were  up  early  and  started  almost  on 
schedule — a  thing  which  a  person  who  has  made  this  trip 
will  have  a  hard  time  to  believe,  but  it  is  true  just  the 
same,  and  partially  due  to  the  climate  which  had  filled  us 
full  of  pep.  You  got  to  hand  it  to  Colorado  on  roads  and 
pep,  two  things  which  goes  well  together — compliment 
each  other,  as  my  synonym  book  says.  And  by  the  way, 
until  I  bought  that  book  I  always  thought  that  a  synonym 
was  a  Jewish  church.  Gee,  but  I  'm  getting  educated  a  lot ! 

Well,  owing  to  the  above-mentioned  pep  and  good  roads, 
I  decided  that  this  was  a  swell  day  for  our  little  mother 
to  drive,  I  having  done  nothing  so  far  in  that  line  except 
sympathize.  So  I  hopped  into  my  riding  clothes  and  also 
the  driver's  seat,  and  allowed  Mister  Fixit,  the  smart- Aleck 
in  the  new  Colby-Droit,  to  dash  off  ahead  of  me  from  in 


West  Broadway  171 

front  of  the  same  hotel,  where  he  had  told  Jim  in  the  barber 
shop  he  had  arrived  a  day  ahead  of  us.  So  I  let  him  keep 
that  way,  as  each  time  we  had  met  him  he  had  been  a  road 
hog,  and  would  edge  you  off  the  ocean  in  his  boat  if  he 
could,  and  why  not  let  him  go  if  it  gave  him  any  satis- 
faction, because  anybody  knows  that  while  these  new 
Colby-Droits  are  very  snappy  they  undoubtedly  made  a 
better  bus  back  two  years  ago  when  we  bought  ours. 

"Well,  anyways,  I  let  him  go,  and  also  a  family  of  two 
sons  and  their  mother  which  we  had  become  intimate  with 
through  having  waved  several  times  on  the  road  since 
leaving  Thatcher,  and  we  now  felt  them  old  friends;  but 
we  must  part,  because  they  were  going  northwards  to 
Pueblo  and  Pike's  Peak.  So  we  waved  them  farewell, 
wishing  it  was  possible  to  have  Pike's  Peak  and  El  Paso 
thrown  into  our  own  route,  because  a  tourist's  eyes  are 
always  larger  than  his  allotted  mileage,  if  you  can  under- 
stand what  I  mean.  And  then  at  length,  having  stalled 
all  I  could,  and  having  no  excuse  left  for  not  starting  off 
down  that  terribly  steep  street,  and  a  little  nervous,  I  threw 
off  the  brake,  and  without  stepping  on  her  teased  gently 
into  second,  and  we  was  off  for  a  pass  called  Raton  but 
pronounced  Batoon. 

Well,  up  to  this  I  had  an  idea  that  a  pass  was  some- 
thing that  the  railroads  had  stopped  issuing.  But  it  seems 
there  is  still  another  kind  left,  and  that  this  was  one  of 
them.  Though  where  they  get  that  pass  stuff  is  more  than 
I  know,  because  pass  is  about  all  two  cars  can  do  on  it,  even 
though  the  pavement  is  simply  elegant.  But  a  pass  ought 
to  mean  a  place  which  is  cut  through  like  a  open  tunnel — 
a  place  to  pass  through — a  opening,  or  cleft,  as  the  book 
says,  not  a  roller  coaster  without  fences  and  a  drop  of 
thousands  of  feet  or  maybe  miles,  for  so  it  looked,  on  one 
hand  or  the  other,  depending  on  whether  you  are  coming 
lip  or  going  down. 


172  West  Broadway 

It  was  beautiful,  though,  and  looked  dangerous — more 
dangerous  than  it  really  was.  You  shoot  up  into  it  directly 
out  of  Trinidad's  steep  and  shining  streets,  and  right  away 
the  evergreen  trees  begin — and  the  sudden,  abysmal  views, 
if  you  are  a  good  enough  driver  to  be  able  to  look  at  them. 
The  earth  seems  to  be  split  apart  for  miles  deep  and  the 
opening  powdered  with  the  evergreens,  which  way  down 
there  look  like  tiny  ferns.  The  cliff  is  most  of  the  way 
on  your  right  going  up,  and  naturally  the  person  on  that 
side  has  a  right  to  hug  it — to  stick  right  by — while  the 
poor  devil  that  is  coming  down  has  to  take  the  outside 
edge  by  the  sheer  drop  into  lots  and  lots  of  view.  I  guess 
those  views  are  inspiring.  I  heard  afterward  they  was,  but 
at  the  time  I  didn't  really  know;  I  was  too  busy  with  the 
bus  and  trying  to  keep  from  sliding  off  into  one  of  them 
fair  landscapes.  I  know  it  was  like  all  the  picture  post 
cards  of  it,  and  then  some ;  that  you  could  see  practically 
all  the  U.  S.  A.  from  the  top,  but  it  meant  nothing  in  my 
young  life.  All  I  thought  of  was,  is  the  edge  really  as  far 
away  as  I  know  it  is,  and  can  I  behave  accordingly? 

Of  course,  the  boys  asked  was  I  nervous  and  wouldn't 
I  let  them  drive,  and  I  said  no,  not  going  up.  I  was  all 
right  going  up,  but  at  the  summit  I  would  let  Tom  take  it, 
and  I  would  then  admire  the  view  coming  down — the  view 
of  my  future  life.  And  just  after  I  said  this,  believe  me, 
something  happened! 

We  were  nearly  at  the  top,  and  had  come  to  the  only 
part  of  the  road  which  wasn't  in  perfect  repair.  Maybe 
there  had  been  a  landslide  or  a  strike  among  the  road 
barbers,  I  don't  know  which;  but  I  do  know  we  come  to 
a  stretch  that  was  rough  and  very  narrow.  Two  cars 
could  barely  have  passed  without  one  of  them  backing  up 
or  down,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  waiting  for  the  other. 
I  was  driving  close  to  the  cliff,  approaching  a  curve  and 


West  Broadway  173 

thinking  my  heaven  what  would  I  do  if  somebody  comes 
around  it — when  they  did! 

It  all  happened  so  quickly  that  it  couldn't  happen  any 
other  way  than  it  did.  Without  blowing  their  horn, 
around  the  curve  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  road  and  hugging 
the  cliff  came  a  big  red  car  with  two  men  in  it — the  two 
bulls  to  whom  we  had  given  the  slip  at  Kansas  City.  The 
man  driving  give  a  yell  and  threw  his  hands  in  the  air  off 
the  wheel,  while  the  other  one  stood  up  with  something, 
I  don't  know  what,  in  front  of  him.  Their  car  was  com- 
pletely out  of  control.  There  was  only  one  thing  left  for 
me  to  do  and  I  done  it. 

I  stepped  on  the  accelerator  as  hard  as  I  could,  and  with 
a  strength  I  didn't  know  I  had  swung  my  car  across  in 
front  of  them  toward  the  outer  edge  of  the  chasm. 


XII 

THE  bird  who  said  nothing  is  impossible  said  a  mouth- 
ful, because  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  pass  that  big 
red  car  on  the  left  without  going  over  the  cliff — and  yet 
I  did! 

Speed  was  what  done  it,  sheer  speed  and  a  good  steering 
knuckle  that  let  me  swing  by  that  other  bus  and  keep 
going.  I  swear  that  our  two  left  wheels  was  on  a  piece 
of  ground  of  an  angle  of  about  sixty  degres  for  nearly  two 
seconds,  and  then  somehow  my  heart  was  back  in  place, 
and  so  was  the  car — by  a  miracle.  I  don't  want  to  be  any 
nearer  to  death  than  that,  however,  until  I  get  ready  to  die. 
Talk  about  drowning  showing  up  your  past — well,  it  has 
nothing  on  skimming  the  top  of  the  Raton  Pass  on  the 
wrong  edge.  You  see  things  in  your  mind  that  you  haven't 
thought  of  for  years,  and  hoped  you  had  forgotten. 

Well,  we  got  back  on  that  road — actually  got  back — and 
for  a  while — it  was  only  a  few  minutes,  I  guess,  but  I 
couldn't  possibly  tell  how  long,  because  it  seemed  like  years 
— all  I  could  do  was  keep  on  driving  like  a  crazy  person, 
reaching  the  summit  and  diving  down  the  beginning  of 
the  descent. 

"Holy  Barney  Oldfield!"  I  heard  Toft.  Westman  yelling 
from  the  back  seat,  but  it  seemed  like  a  voice  from  some 
place  in  another  world. 

Close  to  my  ear  Jim  was  saying  something  very  cool 
and  steady,  and,  thank  heaven,  not  losing  his  head  and 
trying  to  grab  the  wheel  or  anything. 

"Good  girl!"  he  says.     "Good  girl!    Take  your  foot  off 
tihe  accelerator  now  and  try  if  you  can  go  into  low!'* 
J74 


West  Broadway  175 

"I  can't!"  I  gasped,  wishing  I  had  only  had  the  sense 
to  stop  on  the  level  summit,  but  like  a  regular  female,  while 
I  had  been  O.  K.  in  the  actual  emergency,  I  was  now 
thoroughly  scared  and  come  pretty  near  to  losing  my  head. 
If  only  I  had  stopped  back  up  there!  But  I  didn't  think 
quick  enough.  And  now  we  was  going  downhill  like  a 
crazy  thing,  with  that  heavy  car,  of  course,  gaining  speed 
from  its  own  weight  every  moment. 

"You  must  go  into  low!"  says  Jim's  voice  in  my  ear 
again — very  quiet  and  compelling,  like  my  conscience  was 
speaking  to  me.  "You  must!" 

Well,  I  tried — sort  of  automatically — while  we  flew 
around  curves  the  like  of  which  I  had  never  before  even 
dreamed  of.  And  "dreamed"  is  right — that's  what  it 
seemed  like,  for  the  road  begun  to  twist  and  double  on 
itself  and  loop  around  as  though  it  had  been  laid  out  for  a 
grim  joke — only  now  it  was  smooth  and  broad  and  clear. 

"Well,  listening  to  Jim,  I  tried  to  go  into  low.  But  at 
first  all  I  succeeded  in  doing  was  to  get  into  neutral,  and 
then  of  course  we  was  coasting.  The  brakes  might  of  been 
made  of  water. 

"You  must!"  says  Jim  again,  and  by  some  miracle,  his 
will  helping  me,  I  did  actually  get  into  low.  We  com- 
menced to  slow  down,  and  then  just  at  the  foot  of  that 
awful  mountain,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  little  town  of 
Eaton,  I  managed  to  stop,  and  trembling  and  damp  all 
over  put  my  head  on  Jim's  shoulder  and  cried  and  felt 
better  and  let  him  take  over  the  wheel. 

"I  guess,"  I  says,  "that  is  all  the  driving  I  will  do  for 
to-day." 

"I  guess  so  too!"  says  Jim — and  a  lot  of  nice  things  as 
well  about  how  good  I  was.  And  never  mind  them;  what 
I  done  was  more  instinct  than  brains. 

"I  wonder  hadn't  we  better  go  back  and  see  are  those 
fellows  all  right  ? ' '  Jim  says. 


176  West  Broadway 

"Not  much!"  I  says.  "There's  nothing  wrong  with 
them.  There  was  nobody  behind  me,  and  they  had  the 
whole  advantage  on  their  side.  All  they  had  to  do  was 
keep  on  going,  and  if  we  go  back  we  will  only  be  inviting 
ourself  to  jail!" 

"Good  Lord,  was  it  them  bulls?"  says  Jim. 

' '  I  '11  say  so ! "  says  Tom  and  me  in  a  chorus  together. 

"Good  night!"  says  Jim,  and  with  that  he  stepped  on 
the  Colby's  tail  and  we  took  a  jump  due  west  without 
further  hesitation. 

Well,  off  we  went  then,  through  the  view  that  we  ought 
to  of  been  looking  at  from  the  top  of  Raton  but  had  no 
time  for.  Somehow  I  could  now  look  at  it  with  sharper, 
keener  eyes  because  of  having  so  nearly  fallen  into  it,  and 
of  course  I  would  then  have  missed  it  entirely,  if  you  get 
me.  So  I  sat  close  to  my  husband,  still  pretty  shaky,  and 
feeling  mighty  close  to  him  in  the  other  sense,  too,  the 
way  a  woman  does  to  her  man  when  they  have  just  shared 
a  danger  or  paid  a  big  bill,  or  some  such  crucial  thing. 
And  while  he  drove  I  relaxed  and  admired  the  great  gray- 
and-purple  mountains  which  loomed  up  on  either  side  of 
the  wide,  wide  valley — such  a  wide  one  that  some  of  the 
cattle  ranches  in  it  have  aeroplanes  to  do  their  fence 
ranging  in — no  kidding,  the  ranches  are  that  big  and  that 
modern.  Well,  the  mountains  looked  bigger  and  more 
beautiful  than  I  had  expected — and  I  had  expected  a  lot  at 
that!  But  somehow  they  hardly  seemed  real. 

Neither  did  these  big  ranches  I  am  telling  you  about, 
because  they  was  so  vast  and  endless  that  you  would 
never  take  them  to  be  ranches  at  all,  but  only  great  plains, 
until  once  in  a  while  you  come  to  a  place  where  there  was 
a  funny  combination  gate  in  a  fence  that  stretched  across 
the  road ;  one  part  that  had  to  be  opened  for  horses  and  the 
other  part  open  all  the-  time,  but  with  iron  bars  across 
the  bottom  of  a  deep  trap  that  I  guess  cattle  would  not 


West  Broadway  177 

cross  of  their  own  free  will  any  more  than  a  lady  will  cross 
a  similar  place  over  a  cellar  in  a  N.  Y.  sidewalk,  especially 
if  in  high  heels,  and  I  expect  hoofs  have  the  same  effect. 

Well,  anyways,  we  just  went  on  and  on  through  these 
ranges  endlessly,  the  color  on  the  high  points  of  the 
Eockies  changing  with  the  sun  in  the  beautiful,  unreal  way 
they  do,  and  their  tall  shadows  reaching  out  over  the 
parched  pasture  lands  where  once  in  a  while  you  could  see 
a  big  herd  of  cattle  like  a  rust  patch  on  a  far  part  of  the 
distance. 

The  road  was  awful  to  begin  with,  but  got  steadily 
worse  all  the  way  through  New  Mexico,  which  we  were  by 
now  in  that  state.  One  place  we  didn't  know  which  way 
to  turn  because  three  equally  bad  roads  forked  away  with 
a  look  of  all  of  them  leading  to  the  jumping-off  place. 
And  so  Jim  stopped  the  bus  and  I  got  out  to  take  a  look 
at  a  funny  sign  I  saw  that  was  shaped  like  a  bell. 

"El  Camino  Real,"  it  says  on  the  bell,  and  then  a  little 
inscription  below  on  a  plate.  It  made  me  quite  breathless 
to  read  it,  and  I  scrambled  back  beside  Jim  all  excitement. 

"To  the  left, ' '  I  says,  "by  that  bell.  Say,  Jim,  this  road 
was  built  by  the  Spaniards  over  three  hundred  years  ago ! ' ' 

' '  So  that 's  what  ails  it ! "  exclaimed  Jim.  ' '  Caramba ! 
It's  time  it  was  rebuilt!" 

"Well,  besides  those  vast,  wonderful  mountains  which 
you  could  admire  when  you  didn't  have  to  keep  your  eyes 
on  the  road,  the  most  noticeable  thing  in  this  part  of  New 
Mexico  was  the  price  of  gasoline.  It  was  undoubtedly 
affected  by  the  altitude.  Anyways,  whether  that's  scien- 
tific or  not,  it's  a  fact  that  gas  jumped  from  thirty-four 
cents  at  Raton  to  forty-five  at  Las  Vegas,  New  Mexico, 
and  it  went  higher  farther  on. 

Outside  of  the  near-accident  on  the  pass,  it  was  a  kind 
of  uneventful  day  until  we  reached  a  place  called  Wagon 
Mound,  and  there  we  bought  gas  again,  and  paid  forty -one 


178  West  Broadway 

cents  for  it.  What  is  further,  we  bought  it  off  an  old  man 
who  had  come  that  far  from  Maine  in  a  oxcart  train  years 
ago.  I  guess  the  wagon  he  was  in  dropped  to  pieces  there 
and  a  mound  had  grown  over  it,  and  that's  how  the  place 
come  by  its  name.  He  told  us  in  a  real  Yankee  voice  that 
he  had  come  to  find  gold.  Well,  he  was  finding  it  now  all 
right,  all  right.  We  give  him  some  of  what  he  was  looking 
for,  and  so  did — I  am  glad  to  say — that  Smart  Aleck  in  the 
new  Colby-Droit,  because  as  usual,  though  he  had  dashed 
ahead,  we  had  caught  up  to  him  by  now,  as  also  had  the 
Peterkins,  who,  even  though  they  was  eight  of  them, 
seemed  to  make  awful  good  time  in  that  flivver,  and  really 
if  I  was  going  across  again  I  believe  I  would  go  in  one  of 
them  instead  of  in  a  car! 

Well,  anyways,  we  left  Wagon  Mound  together,  Mister 
Fixit  dashing  ahead  of  us  as  usual,  and  us  allowing  him  to, 
and  he  as  optimistic  as  ever.  And  then  we  and  the  Peter- 
kins  set  off  together,  all  unsuspecting  of  what  lay  ahead. 

One  thing  we  did  ask  them,  and  that  was  did  they  see 
anything  of  the  big  car  on  the  Eaton,  and  it  seems  they 
had  met  it  back  in  Trinidad,  where  one  of  them  had  told 
Pa  Peterkin  all  about  the  narrow  escape  they  had.  He 
didn't  know,  however,  was  they  coming  along  on  or  not. 
We  told  him  nothing  about  who  they  was  or  anything, 
except,  of  course,  about  how  it  was  us  that  nearly  hit 
them.  But  while  I  wished  them  bulls  no  good,  still  at  the 
same  time  it  was  a  relief  to  know  they  hadn't  been  hurt 
except  in  their  nerves,  and  it  had  rather  been  on  our  con- 
science, not  going  back  and  seeing  if  there  was  any  pieces 
to  pick  up. 

So  we  set  off  quite  cheerful,  including  Tom,  who  some- 
how just  couldn't  seem  to  make  the  Colby  go  fast  enough 
to  get  away  from  Alma,  and  if  ever  a  girl  was  well  chaper- 
oned I'll  say  that  one  was,  especially  as  they  had  by  now 
found  a  stray  cat  somewheres  and  added  it  to  their  flivver, 


West  Broadway  179 

because  I  suppose  they  discovered  they  had  a  little  room 
some  place  and  naturally  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  it. 

Well,  for  the  first  few  miles  we  only  struggled  through 
mud  two  feet  deep  along  the  railroad  track,  which  was 
nothing  to  speak  of,  because,  believe  me,  by  now  our 
middle  name  was  Mud,  and  we  snuggled  right  down  into  it 
and  wrestled  along  like  the  couple  of  experts  we  was;  not 
even  minding  when  a  freight  train  on  the  Santa  Fe  tracks 
come  along  and  raced  us  up  a  big  grade.  We  raced,  I  say, 
but  the  same  as  a  couple  of  turtles  in  the  old  story,  with 
the  engineer  leaning  out  of  the  cab  window  and  kidding  us. 

Well,  that  was  all  right;  but  when  we  left  the  mud  and 
pools  of  old  rain  and  struck,  as  it  were,  inland — oh,  my 
gosh !  Up  to  then  I  thought  I  had  seen  bad  roads,  and  so 
I  had,  it's  the  truth !  But  here  all  of  a  sudden  was  no  road 
at  all.  Actually  it  is  a  fact !  From  Springer  on,  for  fifty 
miles,  it  is  positively  the  truth  that  there  is  no  road — only 
a  rolling  country  covered  thick  with  what  looks  exactly 
like  coal-black  petrified  sponges,  but  is  actually  lava  rock, 
and  you  have  to  go  over  a  extinct  volcano  by  a  mere  trail 
that  you  can  hardly  see. 

Listen,  boys  and  girls!  There  is  volcanoes  on  North 
America !  There !  I  betcher  you  didn  't  know  that  before ! 
And  I  didn't  know  it  either  until  I  bumped  into  one  and 
then  bumped  over  what  it  had  once  spit  up,  which  is  the 
aforesaid  petrified  sponges. 

As  for  which  way  to  go  across  this  awful  but  still  some- 
how wonderfully  impressive  wilderness,  why,  only  for  the 
sun  and  once  in  a  while  a  Santa  Fe  trail  marker  you 
wouldn't  actually  know  which  way  to  go,  much  less  dare 
turn  and  try  to  go  back.  And  all  of  this  in  a  heat  of 
goodness  knows  what  temperature,  but  it  was  enough — 
I'll  say  it  was  boiling  1 

"Say,  Jim,"  I  says  at  last,  "where  are  we  headed  for 
across  this  no-man's  land?" 


180  West  Broadway 

"Las  Vegas,"  says  Jim. 

"Lots  vaguer!"  I  says.  "This  is  vague  enough  for  me 
— I  don't  want  it  any  vaguer!" 

But  we  had  to  keep  on  going — there  was  nothing  else  to 
do.  And  when  you  got  used  to  it  you  begun  to  see  a 
strange  beauty  in  it,  too,  especially  in  being  so  fearfully  hot 
yet  seeing  the  snow-capped  Sangre  de  Cristo  range  of 
mountains  far  away  in  the  distance,  with  that  queer  near- 
farness  or  far-nearness  that  mountains  have  out  there. 

And  then  around  four  p.  M.,  when  we  had  just  about 
decided  we  was  lost  in  a  part  of  the  world  that  God  had 
forgot  to  finish  or  had  been  too  tired  to  bother  with  late 
Saturday  night,  another  tourist  actually  come  in  sight — 
I  mean  coming  towards  us.  He  was  a  fierce  man  with  a 
athletic  mustache  that  jumped  around  when  he  talked, 
and  a  tired  wife,  and  lots  of  bundles  and  et  ceteras  and  a 
Dakota  license  in  a  little  old  roadster. 

He  give  us  a  hail,  and  we  stopped  for  one  of  them  ex- 
changes of  gab  that  get  to  be  the  regular  custom  among 
us  new  sort  of  gypsies. 

' '  How 's  the  road  ahead  ?  "  he  says,  leaning  anxiously  out 
over  his  steering  wheel. 

"Watter  you  mean,  road?"  says  Jim. 

"Oh!  So  it's  as  bad  as  that?"  says  the  bird.  "Well,  it 
couldn't  be  worse  than  what  is  ahead  of  you  folks.  There 
is  a  hellofa  canyon  and  some  big  washes — look  out  for  the 
one  just  beyond  Canyon  Diablo — the  bridge  over  the  river 
is  pretty  near  gone  and  one  car  was  stuck  there  when  I 
come  by!" 

"Thanks!"  says  we.  "Good  luck!"  And  he  says  the 
same,  but  neither  of  us  seriously  hoping  for  it,  and  off  we 
went  again,  with  Grandma  Peterkin,  that  was  kind  of 
feeble-minded,  starting  to  cry. 

Well,  Devil 's  Canyon  was  a  good  name  for  that  place  all 
right.  It  come  without  warning.  The  surface  of  the  tree- 


West  Broadway  181 

less  plain  just  stopped,  that's  all,  and  we  went  helter- 
skelter  down  a  steep,  winding  grade  covered  with  loose 
stones,  and  with  the  rocks  above  and  below  us  jutting  out 
in  strange  shapes,  like  fantastic  buildings  had  been  started 
there  and  then  been  left  half  finished  and  forgotten.  Out 
we  dashed  again,  leaving  the  terrible  volcanic  rock  behind 
now,  and  coming  onto  something  that  faintly  resembled  a 
road.  But  such  a  road!  Evidently  it  had  been  raining 
ahead  of  us  again,  and  gullies  that  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  put  there  on  purpose  crossed  it,  and  we  was  supposed 
to  cross  them  on  little  bridges,  which  we  did  by  rushing 
them,  but  they  hardly  held  us.  Believe  me,  it  was  some 
exciting  ride! 

Then  we  plunged  down  into  a  second  canyon — a  smaller 
one  this  time,  with  a  few  tortured,  twisted  evergreens  try- 
ing to  grow  in  it,  and  there  we  seen  what  Dakota  had 
meant.  The  earth  around  the  approach  to  the  bridge  on 
our  side  was  pretty  nearly  washed  out.  The  Peterkins, 
who  was  ahead  of  us,  didn't  realize  this,  however,  but 
made  a  rush  for  it  and  got  stuck  halfway — sort  of  with 
their  forepaws  resting  on  the  bridge  and  their  hind  quar- 
ters on  the  road,  if  you  get  me — their  differential  having 
come  into  argument  with  a  plank  and  refusing  to  go. 

Well,  we  waited  behind  them,  while  they  buzzed  and 
buzzed  and  tried  to  back  off  and  couldn't.  And  so  finally 
they  all  got  out  and  just  simply  lifted  the  flivver  back 
where  it  belonged  on  the  road.  But  none  of  us  cared  to  try 
that  bridge  again,  and  so  we  took  the  ford  instead,  there 
actually  being  water  in  this  river  for  once,  and  Tom  was 
real  brave  and  walked  across  first  to  see  how  deep  was  it, 
and  found  it  wasn  't,  and  that  the  bottom  was  all  rock.  So 
then,  as  I  say,  we  done  our  first  fording — and  got  quite  a 
kick  out  of  it,  I  '11  say — and  when  we  had  got  on  the  other 
side  Ma  Peterkin  held  us  all  up. 

"Wait!"  says  she,  and  so  we  waited,  and  ma  went 


182  West  Broadway 

around  to  the  other  side  of  her  car  and  took  off  her  red 
flannel  petticoat,  not  alone  on  account  of  the  heat,  but  so 
as  to  pin  it  onto  that  dangerous  bridge,  which  she  done 
with  two  safety  pins  she  found  some  place  on  the  kids, 
and  the  handle  of  a  busted  jack  made  a  pretty  good  pole. 

Then  Jim  took  the  lid  off  my  hatbox,  which  was  busted 
anyways,  and  with  a  little  axle  grease  wrote  a  sign — ' '  The 
River  is  Safe  to  Ford" — and  stuck  it  where  it  would  do 
the  most  good,  and  then  we  went  on  our  way  rejoicing,  and 
feeling  my,  how  considerate  we  was  and  what  a  lot  of 
good  we  done  for  humanity — you  know  the  feeling — con- 
sequently in  a  very  good  temper. 

Also,  the  road  got  slightly  better,  or  at  least  recognizable 
as  such,  and  led  us  down  into  a  beautiful  oasis  all  willow 
trees  and  fertile  fields,  with  a  ranch  house  as  pretty  as  a 
set,  built  years  ago  by  Mormons,  and  the  ranch  belonging 
to  it  had  seventy -five  thousand  acres!  Think  of  it!  It's 
true!  And  then  when  we  had  a  drink  of  water  there  we 
passed  along  out  of  this  miracle  of  green  coolness  and 
come  into  Las  Vegas,  a  big  mining  town,  where  I  again  saw 
the  exact  hat  I  was  wearing  in  a  milliner's  window,  and 
where  we  spent  the  night. 

I  mean  we  spent  it  in  the  town,  and  in  also  as  good  a 
hotel  as  we  had  struck  so  far  out  of  Kansas  City,  and 
we  had  struck  all  of  them  that  lay  to  the  east  of  us.  But 
Tom  said  no  he  thought  he  would  not  eat  with  us  to-night. 
He  had  some  place  he  wanted  to  go,  and  it  was  to  the 
municipal  camping  grounds;  and  of  all  things,  he  took 
Alma  to  see  a  picture  of  me  that  was  then  showing  at  the 
Gem! 

But  Jim  and  I  didn't  go  into  the  theater.  Instead  we 
took  a  look  at  the  shop  windows,  where  he  bought  a  couple 
of  his  favorite  collars,  and  if  I  seem  to  keep  repeating  that 
you  can  get  anything  you  want  any  place  in  America  it 
is  merely  to  point  out  that  we  have  no  downtroddenness 


West  Broadway  183 

nor  real  poverty,  or  why  should  there  be  the  demand  and 
supply  of  these  things  from  one  end  of  the  country  to 
the  other?  And  no  matter  what  day  of  the  year  Mr. 
Trotzky  was  to  come  over  here,  it  would  always  be  the 
first  of  April  for  him! 

Well,  anyways,  nobody  tried  to  pinch  us  here,  and  so 
next  morning  early  we  stopped  by  the  free  camping  ground, 
where  dozens  of  cars  was  huddled  together  much  like  the 
old  wagon  trains  must  of  at  night,  and  picked  up  the  Peter- 
kins,  because  we  was  by  now  getting  used  to  them,  and  Ma 
Peterkin  had  invited  us  to  lunch  in  the  public  park  at 
Santa  Fe. 

Well,  we  had  the  appetite  for  it,  all  right,  when  we  got 
there,  for  it  is  some  ride  through  the  mountains  and  the 
Santa  Fe  Canyon  to  the  ancient  town  of  that  name !  Wild, 
and  just  nothing  but  mountains,  mountains  all  the  way — 
twisting,  turning  and  always  climbing,  endlessly  going  up 
on  a  gravelly,  awful  dangerous  road  that  certainly  had 
ought  to  be  a  one-way  affair,  especially  as  there  are  three 
roads  going  from  Las  Vegas  to  Santa  Fe,  and  all  of  them 
bad  and  steep,  and  you  got  to  watch  your  engine  and  your 
step. 

But  it  was  almost  the  most  beautiful  country  yet,  with 
forests  of  these  here  strange  twisted,  stunted  cedar  trees 
all  over  it,  and  growing  in  loose  gravel  that  didn't  look 
like  anything  could  live  in  it ;  but  these  trees  did,  and  also 
big  flocks  of  fat  goats,  and  also  even  fatter  prairie  dogs 
by  the  million,  and  it's  a  mystery  how  they  do  it  on  the 
diet  and  remain  so  stout. 

Jim  stopped  to  ask  the  goatherder  why,  but  he  only  spoke 
Spanish,  and  didn  't  savvy,  and  Jim  said  no  wonder,  he 's  a 
Mex !  And  Jim,  it  seems,  speaks  only  a  pure  Castile  Soap 
Spanish  unfamiliar  to  the  unwashed  Mexican. 

The  grades  was  awful,  and  twice  we  had  to  stop  and  help 
the  Peterkins  lift  their  fliv  over  a  thank-you-ma 'am  at  the 


184  West  Broadway 

top  of  a  mountain,  but  by  noon  we  really  did  come  into 
Santa  Fe — an  old,  old,  beautiful  town,  a  wonderful  loca- 
tion for  a  costume  picture,  and  if  we  had  realized  how 
interesting  it  was  going  to  be  we  would  have  fixed  it  so 
we  could  of  stayed  there  longer.  We  come  into  it  down  a 
narrow,  cobbled  street  with  high  old  garden  walls  made  of 
adobe  on  either  side,  and  old  churches  that  look  like  they 
had  been  there  since  the  Year  One,  and  some  of  them  have 
been  since  1582.  Then  we  come  to  the  square  where  there 
are  more  old,  old  buildings,  one  of  which  was  the  Spanish 
White  House  in  the  early  days  before  this  part  of  New 
Mexico  decided  it  would  like  to  take  out  its  first  papers. 
Jim  thought  these  buildings  was  awful  cheap  to  be  palaces, 
and  why  didn  't  our  present  Government  put  up  something 
dizzy  and  new  instead  of  copying  the  old  styles  which,  it 
seems,  were  invented  by  the  Indians.  But  I  didn't  feel 
like  that  at  all.  To  me  they  were  beautiful — like  a  rich, 
plain  dress  made  without  any  regard  to  fashion  on  a  vivid 
woman,  they  fitted  this  vivid  land  and  became  it  as  nothing 
else  could.  They  belonged.  And  when  you  feel  a  thing 
belongs  it's  O.  K.,  and  don't  start  trying  to  improve  it. 

In  a  way,  it  was  hard  to  realize  this  really  was  in  Amer- 
ica, what  with  palm  trees,  strange  flowers  and  prickly  plants 
falling  over  the  plastered  garden  walls  and  spreading 
gorgeously  in  the  park,  where  we  ate  Ma  Peterkin's  very 
good  lunch  shamelessly  from  a  basket.  The  crooked  streets, 
the  vivid  yellow  adobe  houses,  the  hot,  clear  sun,  the  mules 
and  the  signs  in  Spanish — it  was  all  foreign  and  queer. 
And  the  only  thing  made  you  realize  it  was  America  was 
the  American  Indians,  of  which  quite  a  few  was  around 
and  acting  perfectly  natural  and  as  if  there  was  nothing 
queer  about  their  being  there  at  all,  but  the  green  beholder 
feeling  it  mighty  queer  for  all  of  that. 

I  think  these  was  Prehistoric  Indians,  because  we  heard 
there  was  some  awful  interesting  Prehistoric  Indian  dwell- 


West  Broadway  185 

ings  just  outside  of  town;  but  I  don't  know,  they  might 
of  belonged  to  some  other  tribe.  Anyways,  we  bought  some 
post  cards  of  them  in  the  drug  store,  and  wrote  fine  trip 
wish  you  were  along  and  mailed  them,  and  then  we  had 
to  get  started,  because  we  had  wired  Albuquerque  for 
rooms  that  night,  and  we  would  be  behind  our  schedule  if 
we  didn't  put  some  pep  into  it,  and  I  hated  to  delay,  be- 
cause once  I  make  up  my  mind  to  make  a  place  I  want  to 
make  it.  But  even  so,  we  was  sorry  to  leave  that  enchant- 
ing, impossible  Santa  Fe  town — and  I'll  say  that  if  we 
had  known  about  the  La  Bajada  grade  we  would  of  been 
even  sorrier. 

Well,  that  grade  was  all  right  when  it  was  built  way 
back  in  Archaslogical  times,  which  are  of  course  times  that 
date  way  back  to  the  Ark.  Because  in  those  times  moun- 
tains was  for  Arks  to  land  on,  not  for  cars  to  pass  over. 
Also  it  was  0.  K.  for  the  Spaniards  to  tease  a  mule  or  so 
up  and  down  it  just  after  Columbus  discovered  America 
and  before  America  had  discovered  cruelty  to  animals. 
Well,  believe  me,  the  La  Bajada  grade  is  something  that 
if  you  come  out  of  it  alive  you  are  entitled  to  refer  to  it 
as  a  experience.  Coming  up  to  it  from  Santa  Fe  is  all 
right.  You  are  merely  climbing  a  mountain  with  lots  of 
Indians  in  wagons  and  other  curiosities  to  divert  your  at- 
tention. But  coming  down — oh,  boy! 

I  will  give  you  a  cold  fact.  In  a  sharp  descent  of  one 
and  one-half  miles — it  was  over  seven  miles  going  up — 
there  are  eighteen  hairpin  turns  on  a  30  per  cent  grade  and 
no  side  walls. 

No,  that's  no  use!  I  can't  convey  it!  But  how'dja  feel 
if  your  car'd  got  a  long  wheel  base  and  was  too  heavy  for 
brakes,  and  the  turns,  hanging  over  the  sheer  edge  of 
nothing,  were  so  sharp  you  couldn't  round  'em,  but  had 
to  stop  and  back  and  try  again  on  every  single  one  ?  View  ? 
Who  cares  for  views!  The  only  view  interested  me  was  of 


186  West  Broadway 

myself  in  La  Bajada  village  on  the  nice  smooth  level  plain 
below — and  of  landing  there  by  way  of  the  road  and 
intact!  And  somehow  we  did  get  there  safely. 

Now  we  begun  to  pass  little  Indian  farms,  with  funny 
flat  adobe  houses,  white-washed  and  with  strings  of  bright 
red  peppers  hanging  outside  the  door — just  like  it  had  been 
done  to  please  the  picture  post  card  man,  but  real,  not 
fakes,  and  the  way  those  Indians  live  every  day.  Then  we 
went  through  a  pass  that  really  was  a  pass — because  it 
was  a  actual  cut  through  some  high,  granite-looking  moun- 
tains. We  could  see  it  from  afar,  as  the  poet  says,  like  a 
giant  gateway,  and  we  come  to  it  over  a  series  of  broad 
washes  that  would  of  been  impassable  if  wet.  But  they  was 
sandy  instead,  so  that  was  all  right.  And  when  we  dived 
into  this  giant  canyon  that  might  of  been  made  by  God 
with  one  blow  of  a  superhuman  ax  I  got  a  leave-all-hope- 
behind  feeling,  but  quite  unjustly,  for  before  long  we  had 
passed  through  it  over  excellent  paved  roads,  just  like 
Baton,  and  wound  our  way  down  into  Albuquerque. 

Now  it  is  a  funny  fact,  but  sometimes  when  things  seem 
to  go  the  most  wrong  it  is  all  for  the  best.  Probably  some 
other  writer  has  said  this  before  me,  but  it  is  just  as  true 
as  if  it  was  new,  and  that  is  how  things  turned  out  about 
the  fact  of — in  spite  of  our  telegram — our  not  being  able 
to  get  into  the  big  hotel  and  having  to  go  to  the  American 
House.  Jim  grumbled  at  it,  and  I  was  fed  up  with  him 
the  way  a  woman  generally  gets  with  her  husband  at  the 
end  of  a  long,  hard  day's  trip.  So  we  sat  in  our  room 
and  fought  over  which  route  would  we  take  next  day — the 
north  one  through  Laguna,  Grant  and  Gallup,  where  the 
interesting  things  are,  or  the  south  one,  where  the  roads 
was  said  to  be  better.  And  we  fought  so  hard  and  the  night 
was  so  hot  that  even  after  a  walk  around  the  beautiful 
railroad  station  with  its  dozen  of  Indians  and  its  marvelous 
shop — full  of  Indian  treasures,  where  for  once  we  bought 


West  Broadway  187 

something  besides  post  cards,  and  Tom  bought  a  blue  al- 
leged tourquoise  necklace  from  a  squaw,  although  for  whom 
I  could  give  but  one  guess,  and  they  do  go  well  with  red- 
gold  hair — well,  I  couldn't  sleep  very  good,  and  so  it  hap- 
pened that  I  got  up  early  next  day,  before  Jim  did,  and 
I  was  mad  at  him  because  he  had  sent  a  telegram  to  Gallup 
to  hold  rooms  for  us  there  and  I  still  wanted  to  go  by  the 
southern  route. 

"Well,  I  got  up  and  dressed,  and  while  he  was  in  the 
bathroom,  but  I  with  my  things  all  on — and  it's  the  truth, 
I  never  kept  him  waiting  the  whole  trip  except  a  few  times 
— well,  anyways,  while  waiting  for  him  I  stood  looking  out 
through  the  Nottingham  lace  curtains,  and  there  what  did 
I  see  but  the  big  red  car  with  the  two  bulls  in  it,  exhausted 
and  dusty  and  seeming  to  of  been  on  the  road  all  night, 
drive  into  the  garage  across  the  way — which  was  not,  I  may 
mention,  the  one  where  our  bus  was. 

Then  they  left  their  car  and  staggered  over  to  the  other 
hotel! 

Well,  I  just  stood  at  the  window  frozen  for  a  minute 
while  I  tried  to  think  what  to  do.  And  then  when  I  made 
sure  those  tired  cops  wouldn't  be  back  for  a  little  while 
I  did  what  I  had  thought  of.  Saying  nothing  to  Jim,  I 
left  the  room  and  walked  straight  to  that  garage.  There 
was  nobody  around  but  one  man,  and  so  I  spoke  to  him, 
meanwhile  spotting  where  the  red  bus  was  parked  in  a 
near-by  stall. 

''Any  cars  to  hire?"  I  says.    The  man  shook  his  head. 

"Nope,"  he  says.  "There's  a  fair  over  at  Laramie,  and 
you  can't  hire  a  car  in  this  man's  town  for  love  nor 
money. ' ' 

"Too  bad!"  I  says.  "But  maybe  you  got  some  platinum 
magneto  points.  They  would  help  me  just  as  good." 

"Nothing  doing!"  says  the  bird.    "Feller  here  waiting 


188  West  Broadway 

for  them  now — none  in  town.  We  don't  handle  that  sort 
of  thing — have  to  send  clear  to  Indianapolis  for  'em." 

"Shucks!"  says  I.  "Then  would  you  mind  phoning  to 
the  depot  for  me  and  seeing  what  train  accommodations  I 
can  get  to  Las  Vegas?" 

Well,  he  fell  for  it,  and  while  he  was  up  in  the  office 
doing  it  I  lifted  the  hood  of  that  big  red  Mouser  and  pulled 
its  teeth — quietly,  quickly  and  effectively.  In  other  words, 
I  removed  the  magneto  points,  slipped  'em  into  my  sweater 
pocket  and  strolled  out  of  the  garage  at  my  leisure,  after 
thanking  the  obliging  garage  boy  for  information  that 
I  didn't  need  about  the  10 :15. 

"There !"  I  thought.  "It  will  take  'em  quite  a  while  to 
find  out  what  ails  that  bus,  and  another  spell  to  get  the 
cure!" 

And  then  I  rushed  for  the  hotel  and  give  Jim  the  razoo. 

"Shake  a  leg!"  I  says.  "And  make  it  snappy!  We 
are  leaving  this  man's  town  inside  of  twenty  minutes,  and 
we're  going  by  the  southern  route,  where  there  are  no 
railroads  I" 


XIII 

IT  is  true  that  willful  want  makes  woeful  waste  on  most 
occasions,  especially  in  the  big  cities,  but  willfully  want- 
ing to  get  out  of  town  in  a  hurry  wasted  none  of  our  time 
as  we  shot  out  of  Albuquerque  bound  for  Socorro,  111 
tell  the  world!  There  was  only  one  serious  question  in 
my  mind  as  we  left,  which  question  was,  Why  hadn't  these 
bulls  telegraphed  ahead  to  the  local  authorities  and  had 
us  nipped,  as  it  were,  in  advance  ?  And  then  it  come  over 
me  that  there  must  be  a  reward  out  for  catching  us — a 
money  reward  which  they  would  lose  or  have  to  split  with 
the  natives,  or  something  like  that. 

I  felt  we  would  be  safe  so  long  as  we  wasn't  in  danger 
of  being  recognized  by  any  local  authorities  in  the  places 
we  stopped  at.  The  birds  with  the  red  car  would  only 
ask  for  help  as  a  last  resort,  being  fairly  certain  to  figure 
on  catching  us  their  own  selves  sooner  or  later.  Later 
was  what  I  hoped  for,  and  when  I  thought  of  the  session 
they  would  have  when  they  tried  to  find  out  what  was  the 
matter  with  their  car  I  had  to  laugh,  because  a  car  is  not 
like  a  person,  and  when  it  has  a  strange  ailment  you  don't 
generally  look  at  the  appendix  first.  I  only  wished  I  could 
of  seen  their  faces  when  they  at  length  discovered  what  was 
gone,  and  I  was  betting  with  myself  they  would  take  half 
a  day  at  least  to  get  to  it  on  account  of  naturally  think- 
ing of  everything  else  except  magneto  points. 

Well,  anyways,  having  settled  that  for  the  present,  and 

being  perfectly  willing  to  live  in  the  present,  as  the  girl 

said  when  her  uncle  slipped  her  into  a  diamond  ring,  why, 

those  bulls  was  easily  dashed  out  of  my  mind  by  our  dash- 

189 


West  Broadway 

ing  across  the  Rio  Grande  unexpectedly,  and  what  it  was 
doing  up  there  I  don't  know,  as  it  ought  to  of  been  down 
guarding  the  Mexican  border.  But  there  it  was,  having 
perhaps  switched  up  that  way  after  some  bootlegger  or 
something,  because  they  do  say  it  changes  its  course  very 
easily,  and  that  is  not  surprising,  because  it  is  mostly 
Mexican,  after  all. 

Well,  anyways,  we  crossed  it,  or  rather  the  wet  spot 
where  it  would  be  after  the  rains,  and  I  will  say  that  what- 
ever else  the  Westerners  have  that's  good,  they  have  no 
rivers,  and  they  ought  to  see  our  Hudson  or  Connecticut 
or  Delaware  even  just  once.  It  would  knock  'em  dead ! 

Across  the  Rio  Grande  we  come  into  Isleta,  a  real,  genu- 
ine Christianized  Indian  village,  with  a  old  adobe  church 
that  has  the  original,  ancient  fifty-cent  admission  charge, 
whitewashed  houses  with  bright  blue  doorways  with  red 
peppers  hanging  beside  them;  and  in  spite  of  the  color 
scheme  it  is  much  more  Spanish-looking  than  American- 
looking. 

Well,  Jim  got  all  excited,  and  also  got  out  the  camera 
and  snook  up  behind  a  Indian  dame  with  her  young  on  her 
back  and  a  blanket  on  her  front  and  everything,  he  think- 
ing to  tactfully  snap  this  free  uneducated  daughter  of  the 
wilds  in  her  native  state  and  costume  all  but  the  shoes, 
which  was  tan  laced  ones,  and  not  let  her  know  it  or  wound 
her  shy,  sensitive,  free,  wild  spirit  or  anything.  And  he 
didn't  wound  it — not  even  a  little  bit!  Because  when  he 
had  snapped  the  shutter  and  was  tactfully  turning  away 
she  let  out  a  holler  at  him. 

"Hey,  you!"  she  says.     "That'll  be  fifty  cents!" 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  says  Jim  after  he  had  paid  her, 
climbing  back  into  the  car.  "She's  got  not  only  cooties, 
but  gimmies!" 

And  then  we  showed  we  could  beat  it  by  doing  so  out 


West  Broadway  191 

of  town  before  any  he  Indian  was  to  come  up  and  charge 
us  for  looking  at  the  view. 

I  never  expected  we  would  cross  the  Rio  Grande  at  all, 
but  we  done  it  three  times  in  that  one  morning,  on  narrow, 
wooden,  rickety  bridges  with  Indians — half -tamed  ones — 
coming  over  at  the  same  time  with  carts  and  horses.  And 
I'll  remark  right  here  that  I  never  once  seen  an  Indian 
driving  a  car  of  any  kind.  They  like  to  see  their  horse 
power  in  terms  of  actual  horses,  I  guess. 

Well,  anyways,  we  kept  ducking  back  and  forth  over 
the  big  river,  into  and  out  of  mean  little  Indian  villages, 
over  shale  roads  and  between  stunted  trees.  I  suppose 
they  call  them  stunted,  because  that's  what  it  looks  like 
they  were  doing — stunts — with  their  arms  and  bodies  all 
twisted  out  of  shape.  Also  it  is  some  stunt,  believe  me, 
for  a  tree  to  grow  in  that  rock  with  no  water!  But  the 
Indians  manage  to  get  a  little  corn  out  of  the  ground  as 
well,  although  not  over  two  feet  high,  and  this  shows  that 
there  is  good  in  that  ground,  when  stuff  will  grow  in  it 
under  the  worst  possible  conditions;  and  if  the  w.  k.  Gov't 
would  give  these  Indians  a  little  water  they  would  be 
prosperous  farmers. 

Well,  then  we  come  to  a  place  called  Los  Lunas,  which 
I  guess  is  Spanish  for  The  Looneys,  or  Nuts.  It  is  the 
forking-off  place  for  the  two  routes — the  northern  one  by 
Laguna  and  Gallup  and  the  south  one  which  we  was  tak- 
ing, and  if  a  person  was  to  read  all  the  conflicting  signs 
which  the  chambers  of  commerce  of  the  towns  on  the  rival 
routes  have  put  up  you  would  go  nowheres  but  crazy  and 
start  running  around  in  circles. 

Right  opposite  to  each  other  are  two  signs,  each  one  of 
which  says  the  other  way  is  rotten,  with  bad  roads  and 
bum  hotels  and  dangerous  passes,  but  that  their  way  is 
perfect  and  goes  through  the  most  interesting  places.  And 
the  two  routes  is  about  a  hundred  miles  apart,  and  how 


192  West  Broadway 

a  woman  driver  can  ever  decide  which  way  to  turn  there 
is  more  than  I  know,  because  Jim  was  driving  at  the  time, 
and  he  and  the  police  had  my  mind  made  up  for  me. 

So  we  give  ourselves  a  shove  to  the  left  down  through 
Belen.  and  started  south  over  a  wild,  rugged  country 
where  the  mountains  were  like  jagged  teeth  against  the 
sky  and  the  parched  plain  was  strewn  with  the  bleached 
bones  of  automobiles — a  wheel  here,  a  fender  there,  or  a 
rib  of  chassis  drying  grimly  in  the  sun.  I  suppose  they 
was  the  skeletons  of  cars  which  had  got  stuck  there 
when  it  was  all  mud  during  the  rainy  season.  At  least  I 
hope  they  was,  because  that  would  be  the  only  excuse  for 
them  untidy  tourists  leaving  all  that  truck  laying  around 
behind  them.  Honest,  the  worst  thing  I  got  against  tourists 
is  the  way  they  act  like  they  thought  they  would  be  the  last 
person  going  over  a  trail  or  through  a  forest  and  so  it 
didn't  matter  what  tin  cans  and  even  worse  ecteras  they  left 
behind  them,  because  of  course  nobody  would  ever  see  them. 
And  if  they  would  only  have  eyes  in  the  back  of  their  head 
they  would  see  a  big  procession  behind  them  that  the  land- 
scape is  ruined  for,  practically,  or  would  be  except  that 
Nature  fortunately  made  mountains  bigger  than  tomato 
cans  and  prairies  larger  than  newspapers.  But  there  is 
no  sense  in  throwing  rubbish  in  the  face  of  Nature.  It 
don't  improve  it  any  more  than  it  would  any  other  face, 
and  the  Government  is  not  yet  in  a  position  to  provide  a 
corps  of  facial  massagists  for  the  whole  entire  map  to  clean 
up  after  campers. 

If  I  personally  myself  was  running  Washington  I  would 
see  to  it  that  all  parties  about  to  cross  the  continent  from 
either  side  by  motor  was  put  through  a  strict  examination 
to  find  out  did  they  have  decency  and  intelligence  enough 
always  to  go  to  the  little  trouble  that  it  is  to  leave  a  clean 
camp — to  respect  the  forest's  fire-insurance  policies,  and 
not  to  cut  down  and  pull  up  plants  for  no  reason.  And 


West  Broadway  193 

for  the  ones  which  was  found  guilty  of  violating  their  oath 
of  outing  the  punishment  would  be  that  they  would  have 
to  walk  all  the  way  from  the  court  where  they  was  tried 
to  Arizona  or  New  Mexico  or  wherever  they  left  the  mess 
and  clean  up  after  themselves !  Ma  used  to  punish  me  that 
way  on  a  small  scale  when  I  was  young,  and  believe  me, 
having  to  do  it  even  once  will  learn  you,  and  I  am  laying 
in  wait  for  Junior  with  that  same  golden  ruler ! 

"Well,  anyways,  these  high  windy  plains  with  their  skele- 
tons of  dead  autos,  and  also  with  here  and  there  a  dead 
steer  thrown  in  to  make  it  look  natural,  was  cold  as  the 
mischief,  although  the  southest  we  had  been  yet.  The 
noons  was  hot,  but,  oh,  you  night  and  morning !  Actually 
we  would  put  on  our  winter  you-know-whats  and  a  coat 
and  sweater,  beginning  with  the  next  day  when  we  left 
Socorro,  a  pretty  little  town  with  hot  springs  and  a  hot  little 
hotel  and  a  hot  couple  of  Hopi  chickens  in  cootie  coops 
and  ten-cent  pearl  earrings  and  regular  Broadway  clothes 
who  waited  on  the  table  there.  Cute  ?  I  '11  say  they  were ! 
And  even  Tom  Westman  passed  a  few  remarks,  which  is 
quite  enough  to  say  of  them,  because  he  was  technically  in 
love,  and  so,  according  to  the  books,  he  hadn't  ought  to  of 
noticed. 

What  a  cold,  well-aired  morning  it  was,  coming  up  out 
of  Socorro  through  a  high,  dangerous  mountain  pass 
called  Blue  Canyon !  Up  and  up  we  went,  but  I  more  ac- 
customed to  it  now  and  able  to  look  back  at  the  view  with- 
out wanting  to  jump  into  it.  And  it  was  a  peach  of  a  view 
— all  barren,  jagged  mountains,  very  steep  and  sharp 
pointed  and  filled  with  blue  haze  in  the  hollows.  The  con- 
tinental divide,  it  was. 

Say,  did  you  ever  see  a  golden  eagle?  I  don't  mean  a 
five-dollar  gold  piece  or  one  sitting  in  tragic  quiet  in  a 
cage  at  the  zoo.  I  mean  on  the  loose  where  it  belongs. 
Well,  I  have.  Floating  over  Blue  Canyon,  where  the  sun 


1Q4  West  Broadway 

caught  under  his  almost  motionless,  outspread  wings — the 
finest  sight  you  can  think  of.  He  really  is  pure  gold  when 
he's  flying  overhead  in  the  sun.  Funny  thing  that  look- 
ing at  a  mere  bird  can  give  you  a  choke  in  the  throat  like 
that.  My  heart  sort  of  stopped  with  awe  as  I  lay  back 
and  watched  it  out  of  sight.  I  never  thought  a  bird  would 
make  me  feel  religious,  but  he  did.  I  seen  why  we  chose 
him  for  our  national  emblem.  He  is  so  calm,  free,  majestic 
— so  sure.  Oh,  gosh,  words  is  so  cheap ! 

But  I'm  glad  he  was  chosen,  anyways.  Because  you 
know  what  committees  to  choose  things  are.  Wouldn't  it 
of  been  awful  if  they  had  chosen  a  canary  ? 

We  had  a  lot  of  adventures  with  animals  around  here, 
although  one  of  them  we  didn't  know  about  until  long 
afterward.  Jim  had  been  trying  ever  since  Kansas  to  get 
a  photograph  of  a  prairie  dog,  but  with  no  success.  Well, 
this  day  while  we  ate  our  lunch — and  cleaned  up  the  pa- 
pers after  us — he  went  out  and  set  the  camera  for  a  time 
exposure  over  around  a  turn  where  a  dog  colony  was,  and 
left  it  there  while  we  ate.  Then  he  went  back  and  got  it, 
and  marked  on  the  fillum  number  what  it  was,  and  when 
that  fillum  came  to  be  developed  it  was  the  picture  of  a 
bear! 

Well,  not  to  get  too  far  ahead  of  ourself ,  we  stayed  that 
night  at  Magdalena,  a  real  mining  town,  with  Magdalena's 
face  two  miles  long  on  the  side  of  the  mountain — if  you 
got  a  good  imagination.  And  from  there  we  went  on 
through  more  and  more  mining  countiy,  with  holes  in  the 
hills  where  miners  or  bears  had  made  them,  but  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  Penn  coal  district,  although  coal  was  here, 
too,  and  zinc  and  copper.  And  so  on  through  Datil  Forest, 
all  tall  pine  trees — fox-trail  pines,  they  call  them — and 
again  it  was  awful  cold.  Then  down  into  Quemado,  where 
gas  cost  us  sixty  cents.  It  was  just  a  little  place — sort  of 
post-office  center  for  a  lot  of  big  cattle  ranches,  and  a  big 


West  Broadway  195 

ice-cream  saloon  which  had  seen  stronger  days,  but  not 
in  a  financial  sense,  because  it  seemed  pretty  well  pat- 
tronized  by  cowboys,  of  which  any  number  was  standing 
around  outside  at  ninety-two  in  the  shade.  And  they 
do  really  wear  high-heeled  boots  and  big  hats  and  have  no 
end  of  impudence,  but  of  a  awful  attractive  kind,  and  I 
had  a  perfect  right  to  notice  them  after  the  way  Jim  had 
remarked  about  those  Hopi  chickens  and  pretending  it 
was  a  purely  geographical  interest!  Oh,  baby,  they  was 
some  boys!  A  cowboy  has  to  be  a  awful  lemon  not  to  at- 
tract a  woman.  And  by  gollies,  don't  they  know  it,  just? 

Well,  anyways,  at  Springville  that  night  in  a  clean 
little  tavern  run  by  a  German  woman  who  learned  her 
business  off  of  Harvey  himself,  we  had,  in  the  heart  of  the 
steak  country,  a  steak  that  sticks  in  my  fond  memory  yet. 
It  was  not  over  three  or  four  inches  thick,  tender  as  the 
words  of  love,  cooked  to  perfection,  and  as  it  only  weighed 
around  four  pounds  and  was  served  for  three,  cost  two 
dollars  delivered  and  war  tax  paid !  This  is  a  great 
country,  and  I  can  prove  it,  and  while  there  is  steaks  like 
that  in  it  there  is  also  hope. 

Tom,  for  one,  got  a  revelation  from  that  steak,  and  it 
was  a  beautiful  sight  to  see  him  sitting  there  across  the 
table  from  us,  so  melancholy  and  love  sick  and  lonesome 
for  Alma,  who  must  of  taken  the  northern  route,  that  he 
couldn't  eat  over  half  of  the  whole  entire  thing.  He  just 
kind  of  absorbed  it,  as  though  half  unconscious  of  what  he 
was  doing,  and  then  went  out  to  look  the  public  camping 
ground  over  just  to  make  sure  the  Peterkins  were  not  there. 

I  followed  after  a  while,  just  to  hang  about  and  watch. 
The  camps  in  the  towns  was  so  interesting,  and  the  further 
west  the  more  so.  Beginning  in  Kansas,  this  free-camp-life- 
in-the-open-air  stuff  was  absolutely  canned  by  mutual  con- 
sent of  all  parties,  and  at  dusk  they  would  huddle  into 
not  alone  the  towns,  but  into  camp  yards,  which  was  not 


196  West  Broadway 

beautiful  wooded  dells  where  the  solitary  camper's  fire 
winked  back  at  the  stars,  like  you  would  suppose,  but  a 
wooden  den,  a  sort  of  roofless  garage,  where  often  and  often 
the  busses  would  be  parked  as  close  as  in  a  regular  garage, 
and  everybody  camping  promiscuously  and  so  close  to- 
gether I  should  of  thought  they  would  be  embarrassed  to 
turn  over  during  the  night.  However,  towns  and  supplies 
and — of  all  important  things — water  was  very  infrequent 
and  far  apart  out  there,  which  is  probably  the  reason  for 
this  enforced  chumminess. 

But  oh,  such  a  strange  mixture  would  be  in  those  camp 
yards ! 

Some  were  just  plain  tramps,  some  were  workers  travel- 
ing from  place  to  place  and  picking  up  an  odd  job.  Then 
right  along  next  to  them  some  nice  ladies,  all  alone  together. 
Then  a  sick  man  and  his  wife  and  baby,  living  out  for  their 
health.  Then  a  big,  expensive  new  car  with  a  family  that 
was  just  too  plain  mean  to  pay  hotel  charges,  though  well 
able  to  afford  it. 

Such  a  jumble,  such  a  crew !  There  was  only  two  kinds 
of  people  who  always  seemed  self-sufficient  and  never  come 
into  these  camps  but  stayed  lonely  out  on  the  open  prai- 
rie— keeping  themselves  to  themselves,  as  ma  says.  One 
of  these  kind  was  gypsies — the  genuine  Egyptian  gypsies 
that  thought  the  rest  of  us  was  lowlifes  and  who  wouldn't 
stoop  so  low  as  to  associate  with  mere  Christians.  And 
the  other  was  homesteaders  with  oxen  or  horses  and  prai- 
rie schooners,  of  which  there  are  indeed  many  left,  and 
a  lot  of  them  are  Mormons  looking  around  for  new  lands  to 
take  up.  And  whatever  you  many  think  of  their  mar- 
riages, you  got  to  hand  it  to  them  on  their  ability  to  im- 
prove real  estate. 

When  you  see  one  of  these  birds  camping  at  nightfall  on 
the  prairie  or  the  desert,  his  horses  hobbled,  his  wagon 
looming  up  kind  of  ghostly,  his  fire  beginning  to  leap, 


West  Broadway  197 

yellow  in  the  gray  dusk,  a  woman,  or  sometimes  two  or 
three,  flitting  silently  about,  you  have  a  hard  time  to 
realize  this  is  1921  and  not  '49.  And  then  you  see,  like  we 
did  the  next  day,  a  thriving,  exquisitely  beautiful  town 
like  St.  Johns,  Arizona,  a  garden  town  all  a-flutter  with 
cottonwood  trees,  and  beautiful,  high-class  houses,  and 
you  realize  this  is  a  Mormon  town,  and  that  men  like  that 
lonely — but  not  too  lonely — camper,  come  out  years  ago 
and  caused  the  desert  to  blossom  like  the  rose  and  that  he 
will  do  the  same  if  you  just  give  him  time,  why,  you  com- 
mence to  tone  down  your  opinions  of  Mormons — that  is, 
you  do  if  your  opinions  was  anything  like  what  mine  was. 

I  was  glad — even  after  I  seen  this  further  link  in  the 
wreath  of  beautiful  little  cities  that  stretches  from  coast 
to  coast — I  was  glad  that  Jim  was  not  a  Mormon.  I 
wouldn't  take  a  chance  on  any  man  not  using  the  excuse, 
no  matter  if  they  do  say  that  is  all  over  with  now.  It  was 
a  great  way  of  developing  real  estate,  but  not  of  develop- 
ing domestic  bliss. 

Did  you  ever  notice  how  religion,  no  matter  of  what 
flavor,  will  bring  worldly  results  if  it  is  sincere  and  prac- 
ticed by  a  group  ?  Look  not  alone  at  the  Mormons,  but  at 
Christian  Scientists,  New  Thoughtists,  ect.,  and  the  prop- 
erty they  own.  Think  it  over.  There's  something  worth 
considering.  It  even  works  out  with  plain  common  every- 
day Christians  if  they  remember  that  God  helps  those  who/ 
help  themselves ! 

Well,  anyways,  out  of  St.  Johns  we  struck  into  a  country 
that  got  bigger  and  bleaker  by  the  minute,  causing  me  to 
feel  full  of  pep  and  adventure  and  also  to  sing  my  favorite 
song  that  I  and  Jim  used  to  sing  before  our  dance  in  the 
old  small-time  days,  and  he  now  joined  me  at  the  top  of 
our  voices,  as  often  before  on  this  trip,  because  that  is  how 
the  air  makes  you  feel: 


198  West  Broadway 

I  am  a  little  prairie  flower, 
Growing  wilder  every  hour 

"We  were  doing  a  little  close  agony  over  it  when  Jim 
interrupted  himself  abruptly. 

"Holy  cats,  what  is  that?"  says  he,  taking  one  hand  off 
the  wheel  to  point,  although  going  down  grade,  the  care- 
less way  he  will,  although  I  have  told  him  one  million  times 
that  I  don't  like  him  to  do  it.  But  husbands  have  these 
blind  spots  in  their  minds.  Jim  has  also  got  one  about 
lobster  a  la  Newburg,  which  in  all  the  time  I  have  known 
him  he  has  gone  on  suggesting  for  supper  and  I  have  to 
again  remind  him  that  I  hate  it.  But  as  long  as  he  had 
pointed,  anyways,  why  I  looked,  and  then  I  echoed  his 
surprise,  although  in  more  refined  language. 

For  there  ahead  of  us  was  a  series  of  smooth  cone- 
shaped  mounds  that  were  too  high  for  real  mounds  and  too 
low  to  be  hills.  They  looked  more  like  enormous  ant  hills 
than  anything,  only  the  ants  would  of  had  to  be  about  the 
size  of  automobiles  to  of  made  them.  And  then  up  spoke 
Tom  out  of  the  depths  and  mazes  of  the  road  map — a 
junior  road  map  we  had  bought  off  a  recent  garage. 

' '  Say  folks,  it 's  the  petrified  forest ! "  he  says. ' '  I  thought 
we  was  going  to  miss  it  coming  this  way." 

And  he  and  the  road  map  both  was  right,  because  pretty 
soon,  at  the  foot  of  one  of  them  queer,  nightmarish,  ice- 
cream-cone ant-hill  formations  was  a  sign,  just  as  casual 
and  common  as  you  please,  and  the  sign  says: 

TO  THE  PETRIFIED  FOREST 

A  person  gets  kind  of  a  shock  to  see  a  plain,  ordinary 
black-and-white  sign  with  an  arrow  on  it  saying  such  a 
thing.  It  was  like  seeing  one  that  read  ' '  Free  Beer ;  Come 
In"  on  Sixth  Avenue,  it  was  so  entirely  improbable.  Of 


West  Broadway  199 

course  I  knew  there  was  a  petrified  forest,  but  somehow  or 
other  I  hadn  't  actually  believed  it,  and  that  neat  little  sign 
made  a  wonder  of  the  world  seem  so  casual.  But  then, 
judging  from  many  of  the  ads  I've  seen,  I  suppose  sign 
painters  get  hardened  to  anything. 

Anyways,  we  followed  it,  and  for  a  few  minutes  we 
couldn't,  as  the  poet  says,  see  the  woods  for  the  trees. 
Because  they  was  all  laying  down,  and  of  course  we  was 
looking  for  something  that  stood  up,  and  not  for  a  cross 
between  a  lumber  yard  and  a  stone  quarry. 

When  we  seen  that  the  things  lying  around  us  was  fallen 
trees  made  out  of  jade  and  amethyst  and  coral,  or  anyways 
ihat  looked  like  it,  believe  me,  we  hopped  out  of  the  old 
bus  and  give  it  the  double  o ! 

"Petrified  is  right!"  says  Jim,  fingering  the  bark  which 
looked  just  as  natural — honest,  you  would  of  thought  it 
was  real! 

"What  petrified  it— fright?"  says  I. 

"Don't  it  look  as  if  it  was  done  on  purpose?"  says  Tom. 

"It's  got  those  imitation-flower  places  on  the  Avenue 
skun  a  mile ! ' ' 

"It  was  made  by  a  better  concern!"  I  says.  "I  wonder 
are  we  allowed  to  take  a  piece  for  a  souvenir?" 

"As  there  seems  to  be  several  thousand  acres  of  the 
darned  stuff,"  says  Jim,  "I  think  we  might  take  a  chance. 
Only  leave  us  take  pieces  that  are  already  broken  off." 

Well,  we  says  all  right  we  will,  but  the  trouble  was  to 
make  up  our  mind  which  ones  to  decide  on,  because  the 
ground  was  all  over  stone  chips  and  twigs,  and  you  keep 
picking  them  up  and  then  throwing  them  away,  after,  be- 
cause you  see  a  better  one,  and  so  on  indefinitely.  But  at 
last  we  thinned  our  selection  down  to  not  over  half  a  ton 
of  the  very  choicest  of  our  choice,  or  at  least  as  fine  a  col- 
lection as  our  time  would  permit  if  we  was  to  reach  Wins- 
low  that  night — and  a  lucky  thing  we  put  that  time  limit 


2OO  West  Broadway 

on  ourselves  or  we  might  of  been  running  around  that 
place  yet  yelling,  "Oh,  look  what  I  found!"  In  other 
words,  it  was  like  eating  peanuts  in  a  peanut  factory,  it 
you  get  my  idea. 

But  finally  we  got  our  souvenirs  well  hid  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat  in  case  anybody  was  to  see  them  and  take  them 
away  from  us  on  the  way  out,  and  then  we  left  that  strange 
petrified  world  behind  us,  climbing  through  Holbrook  and 
getting  into  the  town  of  Winslow,  Arizona,  early  enough 
so's  we  could  get  a  wash  in  one  of  Thoughtful  Fred's 
bathtubs  before  eating. 

And  when  we  walked  into  the  hotel,  all  keyed  up  and 
looking  forward  to  it  and  everything,  who  would  we  see 
to  our  surprise  but  Alma  Peterkin  sitting  all  alone  by  the 
door  watching  it!  When  she  lamped  us  she  jumped  to 
her  feet  and  hurried  ovier  to  us,  her  face  pale  under  the 
gold  of  her  sunburn.  Bather  to  my  surprise,  it  was  to 
me  she  come  first. 

"Miss  La  Tour,"  she  says,  speaking  low,  "I've  been 
waiting  to  catch  you  before  you  could  register.  I  came  in 
here  three  hours  ago  to  find  out  if  you  people  had  got 
here  yet.  And  while  I  was  standing  at  the  desk,  before 
I'd  got  a  chance  to  ask,  a  boy  gave  the  clerk  a  telegram. 
I  couldn't  help  seeing  it,  and  it  read:  'Detain  Marie  La 
Tour  and  party.'  I  thought  you  ought  to  know." 


XIV 

A  FRIEND  of  mine  that 's  in  the  pictures  told  me  about 
what  Al  Goldringer  says  the  first  time  he  seen  Ni- 
agara Falls.  It  seems  they  were  up  to  Niagara  on  a  loca- 
tion, and  Rosco,  that 's  my  friend,  led  Al  to  the  edge  of  the 
big  shower  and  started  telling  him  about  it.  I  don't  recall 
the  exact  statistics  he  used,  but  his  line  of  talk  went 
something  like  this: 

"There's  so  many  millions  of  gallons  of  water  goes  over 
these  falls  every  day/'  says  Rosco.  "And  they  weigh  this 
many  tons.  The  force  could  drive  this  number  of  trucks 
around  the  world  so  many  times  and  it  furnishes  that  many 
units  of  electrical  power,  and  the  falls  are  cutting  back  so 
many  feet  a  year." 

And  so  forth  and  ect.  for  a  long  spell  while  Al  listened 
without  a  word.  Then  when  Rosco  got  all  through  the  only 
thing  Al  says  is,  "What's  to  prevent  it?" 

Well,  believe  me,  that  is  the  way  I  felt  when  Alma  sprung 
her  glad  tidings.  I  could  just  see  the  cops  coming  over 
like  a  avalanche  and  no  stopping  them,  and  the  well- 
known  words  of  the  poet  also  came  to  mind,  ' '  What  to  do ! 
Oh,  what  to  do  ? "  I  felt  like  the  sow  of  despond,  I  '11  say 
I  did! 

"So  you  told  her?"  I  says  to  Tom,  and  the  kid  nodded 
at  Alma. 

"I  wanted  to  start  clear,"  he  says. 

"I  see!"  says  I.  "But  what  will  we  do?  We  hadn't 
ought  to  stay  here,  that's  a  cinch!" 

"If  only  there  was  some  place  you  could  disappear  to 
for  a  few  days!"  says  Alma  wistfully.  "I  think  I  could 

201 


2O2  West  Broadway 

head  those  fellows  off.  I  'd  watch  for  them  and  spread  the 
news  that  you  had  gone  on  ahead  of  us.  Then  eventually 
Tom  could  get  over  into  Mexico  if  he  absolutely  has  to." 

"He  won't  have  to,"  says  Tom  himself.  "If  I  can  just 
keep  them  birds  busy  until  I  reach  Los  Angeles  I  will  be 
perfectly  satisfied!" 

Well,  I  give  him  a  look  then — a  question  about  why 
was  that  so  arising  to  my  lips  but  stopping  there.  Besides, 
I  was  getting  the  first  feeble  glimmering  of  an  idea. 

"Say,  I  got  it!"  I  says.  "Do  you  boys  realize  we  have 
come  all  this  way  without  seeing  a  Indian  pueblo?  And 
that  if  we  go  on  from  here  we  will  lose  our  last  chance 
to?" 

' '  Girlie,  gimme  that  road  map ! ' '  says  Jim.  ' '  I  believe 
we  could  go  to  that  one  which  was  the  big  reason  for  my 
wanting  to  come  here  by  way  of  Gallup!  What  was  it 
called?" 

"Oraibi,"  I  says,  remembering  the  name  very  well  on 
account  of  the  fight  we  had  about  the  route — "where  the 
snake  dance  was!" 

"That's  it!"  says  Jim.  "It  would  be  a  swell  place  to 
disappear  to,  and  disappear  is  probably  what  will  happen 
to  us  if  we  get  lost  on  that  territory." 

"Where  would  we  stay?"  I  says,  doubtful  yet  interested, 
because,  believe  me,  to  see  all  the  kind  of  towns  there  are 
in  America  except  the  old  original  native  ones  would  be 
pretty  poor. 

"Oh,  I  got  all  the  dope  at  Albuquerque,"  says  Jim, 
' '  when  I  expected  to  go  out.  You  stay  at  a  trading  post  or 
camp  out." 

"Well,  we  can't  camp,"  I  says.  "We  got  nothing 
to  do  it  with.  But  I'll  say  I'd  like  to  kill  two  purposes 
with  one  side  trip!" 

' '  Oh,  do  go ! "  says  Alma  eagerly.  ' '  And  leave  the  rest 
to  me !  I  '11  manage,  really !  And  we  will  wait  for  you  at 


West  Broadway  203 

the  Grand  Canyon.  By  the  time  you  people  catch  up  to 
us  I'll  have  those  men  well  on  their  way  to  the  coast." 

"What  say?"  says  Jim.    "I'm  game  if  the  rest  are." 

"Well,  I'd  sure  like  to  go  out  and  see  the  noble  red  man 
nobleing  a  little,"  says  I.  "Because  so  far  I've  only  seen 
him  half  baked  by  civilization." 

Tom  went  through  a  few  feeble  motions  of  protest  about 
the  trouble  he  was  to  us  until  he  seen  that  it  was  something 
we  really  wanted  to  do.  And  after  a  little  session  about 
its  being  impossible  to  start  out  that  night,  and  equally 
impossible  to  stay  at  the  hotel,  we  got  Alma  into  the 
Colby  with  us  and  went  to  where  the  Peterkins  were  camp- 
ing for  the  night — not  in  the  regular  public  camping 
grounds,  thank  heaven,  but  a  little  ways  out  of  town  where 
they  had  found  a  spring. 

Well,  we  put  up  the  curtains  and  slept  in  the  car.  And 
if  you  have  ever  slept  in  one  you  will  know  how  glad  I  was 
to  get  up  at  dawn  and  make  an  early  start. 

Ma  Peterkin,  who  had  been  merely  told  we  couldn  't  get 
in  at  the  hotel,  because  why  worry  her,  was  heavenly  to  us, 
and  give  us  the  two  swellest  meals  you'd  want  to  see,  and 
how  she  done  it  on  a  camp  fire  and  a  gasoline  stove  is 
more  than  I  could  say,  but  it  would  of  greatly  interested 
my  own  ma,  whose  middle  name  is  Cooking.  And  while 
not  wishing  to  slight  her  food  in  any  way,  I  will  say  that 
eating  your  breakfast  at  dawn  of  a  fine  morning  on  the 
edge  of  the  Bad  Lands  and  the  edge  of  a  running  board 
does  add  a  lot  to  the  flavor  and  you  even  get  a  sort  of 
glad,  free  feeling  over  being  frankly  not  washed  and  ect. 

Well,  anyways,  Jim  had  got  some  dope  on  the  road  from 
a  garage  the  night  before,  and  so  we  started  right  out 
northward  as  the  sun  comes  up  with  a  shout  of  light,  and 
Alma  rode  with  us  a  little  ways  so  as  to  talk  freely. 

I  gave  her  a  full  description  of  how  the  bulls  looked, 
and  she  promised  to  send  a  wire  to  Winslow  addressed  to 


204  West  Broadway 

Mr.  Henry  Brown  as  soon  as  it  was  O.  K.  for  us  to  come 
along  to  the  canyon,  and  we  would  probably  find  her 
wire  when  we  come  back  to  Winslow.  Then  we  stopped  the 
bus  and  she  got  out,  taking  Welcome  with  her,  because 
he  didn't  speak  Hopi  and  I  didn't  want  him  to  get  into 
any  Irishman's  argument  with  the  Indian  dogs  and  maybe 
get  us  scalped  or  something. 

So  we  said  so  long  and  started  off,  and  a  good  thing 
that  Jim  was  driving,  because  Tom  couldn't  seem  to  get 
his  head  turned  around  to  the  front,  but  kept  looking 
back  at  the  bob  of  sunshine  that  was  Alma's  hair  until 
he  could  see  it  no  longer  or  got  a  crick  in  his  neck  or 
both. 

Now  I  have  written  some  about  the  East  Coast  and  the 
reds  that  bloom  there  in  faint  shades  of  pink  like  a  dye  that 
hasn't  taken  very  good  except  in  a  few  weak  spots.  I 
have  wrote,  too,  of  New  York  City,  that  great  big  over- 
grown jumble  of  beauty  and  ugliness,  of  riches  and  pov- 
erty. I  set  down  some  things  about  its  love  of  show  and 
ignorance  of  values,  and  knocked  it  a  good  deal  the  way  a 
loving  relation  has  a  right  to.  I  have  said  a  most  inade- 
quate mouthful  about  the  magnificent  strength  of  the 
Middle  West,  and  I  have  hinted  at  religion  in  the  grand 
panoramas  of  the  Far  West.  But  now  I  realize  that  I 
have  got  to  spill  a  little  about  art.  And  I  am  up  against 
it,  because  I  don't  know  anything  about  art.  As  the  poet 
or  somebody  says,  I  know  what  I  like.  Also  I  got  more 
than  a  suspicion  that  art  and  religion  have  got  a  close  con- 
nection to  each  other  in  some  way. 

And  by  religion  I  don't  mean  the  early  cathedrals  and 
enlarged  colored  photographs  of  saints.  I  mean  that  the 
kind  of  instinctive  feeling  that  come  to  me  just  west  of  West 
Broadway,  and  which  I  call  religion,  had  a  ditto  mark 
in  the  art  field.  In  other  words,  I  saw  something  in  these 
three  days  which  we  spent  out  on  the  Bad  Lands  that 


West  Broadway  205 

I  knew  that  I  liked ;  and  if  you  know  that  strongly  enough 
about  anything,  that  thing  is  art,  take  it  from  me!  Art 
for  you,  at  any  rate.  I  decided  this  before  I  found  out 
that  a  whole  lot  of  the  best  brush  chasers  in  the  country 
agreed  with  me  about  the  Hopis  and  their  reservation. 

Well,  anyways,  this  was  how  I  felt  from  the  very  mo- 
ment we  got  clear  of  Winslow  on  our  way  to  see  Lowe, 
the  poor  Indian,  and  Behold,  his  wife.  And  I'll  say  the 
feeling  was  a  surprise  to  me,  because  I  hadn't  expected  a 
place  called  the  Bad  Lands  to  be  beautiful.  But  it  was, 
in  a  strange  way,  different  from  anything  I  ever  saw 
before. 

Now  the  feller  at  the  garage  had  told  Jim  there  was  no 
regular  road  out  to  Oraibi,  but  only  a  trail,  and  that  no 
whites  had  been  over  it  in  a  month,  so  far  as  he  knew. 
Not  encouraging  exactly,  huh?  Ill  say  it  wasn't!  But 
that  shows  how  much  you  can  tell  in  advance  about  these 
desert  trails,  which  is  absolutely  nothing,  because,  like 
European  politics,  they  change  while  you  are  telling  about 
them. 

So  the  garage  wizard  having  foretold  that  the  road 
would  be  rotten  at  best,  he  was  of  course  all  wrong.  While 
it  was  a  mere  pair  of  wagon  tracks  between  the  brush,  it 
was  hard  and  firm  and  smooth,  one  of  the  best  pieces  of 
traveling  we  had  had  so  far,  with  of  course  the  usual  bad 
spots  here  and  there.  And  while  on  this  subject  let  me 
add  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  have  not  traveled  over 
desert  roads  that  the  truth  about  them  is  that  they  are  good. 
Unless  it  is  the  rainy  season,  gravel  or  volcanic  cinders, 
once  they  are  packed  down,  make  swell  traveling,  and  you 
can  go  any  place  on  them  that  is  often  called  and  certainly 
would  seem  to  be  impassable.  I  hate  to  make  this  admis- 
sion, because  I  feel  about  the  Hopi  country  much  as  I 
feel  about  my  favorite  little,  as  yet  undiscovered,  new 
restaurant  or  about  my  pet  seamstress.  I  don't  want  to 


206  West  Broadway 

tell  the  common  herd  about  how  comparatively  easy  it  is 
to  get  there  for  fear  that  they  will  rush  in  and  abuse  the 
place,  and  teach  Lowe  to  overcharge  and  to  wear  denim 
pants  and  other  crimes  of  civilization. 

And  now  for  the  art  part.  At  least  for  Chapter  One 
on  it,  which  begun  as  soon  as  we  were  well  out  of  town, 
and  the  light  of  the  sun  behind  us  began  to  feel  its  way 
in  among  the  stubby  round  bushes  that  were  growing 
about  two  feet  apart  all  over  everywhere  on  the  flats,  to 
where  the  plain  ran  abruptly  into  a  monumental  set  of 
high  mesas  far  to  the  east  on  the  one  hand,  and  into  the 
slope  of  snow-crowned  'Frisco  Peaks  way  off  to  the  west, 
or  ahead  of  us  into  a  nothingness  which  we  could  not  imag- 
ine, but  which  we  were  going  into  just  the  same. 

A  person  would  not  think  there  would  be  color  in  a 
enormous  stretch  of  dried  bushes  growing  in  otherwise 
barren,  sandy  ground — I  mean  barren  except  for  rattle  and 
other  snakes,  and  kangaroo  rats,  gophers  and  prairie  dogs. 
But  you  don't  know  the  half  of  it!  When  the  sun  strikes 
it  slantingly  those  dry  bushes  look  like  the  Bad  Lands  had 
been  powdered  with  opals — pink,  blue,  lavender,  sage  green 
— as  light  as  layers  of  tulle  on  a  ballet  skirt !  As  you  come 
up  close  this  color  moves  away  from  you,  but  always  it 
lies  just  beyond.  It  hypnotizes  you,  sort  of,  and  you  ride 
along  in  the  intense  heat  that  is  so  dry  that  you  don't 
mind  it,  and  look  out  over  that  sea  of  opal  to  'Frisco  Peaks 
with  the  snow  on  them,  and  you  wonder  how  come  it  is 
really  you  doing  it. 

Once  in  a  while  a  Indian,  riding  silently  and  sort  of 
drooping  on  a  unshod  horse,  would  pass  us  and  look  at  us 
as  if  we  was  the  curiosities  and  not  him — Navajos,  these 
were,  and  didn't  we  get  stuck  on  ourselves  for  knowing 
the  difference  between  them  and  the  Hopis  ?  I  '11  smy  so ! 
And  then  after  a  while  we  saw  a  startling  sight — a  roof ! 
— after  more  than  a  hour's  driving.  Not  much  of  a  roof, 


West  Broadway  207 

but  still  one,  and  when  we  come  up  to  it  we  seen  it  was  a 
white  man's  building  with  windows  and  a  chimney  and  a 
nice  young  man  and  a  funny  old  Navajo  chinning  on  the 
steps.  I'll  say  that  white  boy  was  glad  to  see  us!  He 
jumped  up  almost  before  we  stopped,  and  come  down  to 
chin  with  us  for  a  pleasant  change. 

"I'm  looking  for  Wilson's  Trading  Post!"  says  Jim. 
"This  it?" 

"No,  this  is  Blackman's,"  says  the  boy,  a  little  disap- 
pointed, I  thought,  that  his  fellow  citizens  was  about  to 
move  on  so  quick.  But  he  pointed  the  way  real  kindly, 
and  consulted  with  the  Indian  in  a  soft,  strange  language 
when  we  asked  the  question  that  is  ever  nearest  to  the 
motorist 's  heart :  ' '  How  is  the  road  ? ' ' 

"Go  along  the  main  trail,"  he  says,  "until  you  come  to 
a  fork.  One  says  to  Leupp.  The  other  one  is  to  Wilson's. 
Then  Bill  he  '11  tell  you  how  to  go  from  there.  The  bridge 
is  down,  but  you  can  ford  the  Little  Colorado — a  wagon 
did  it  yesterday." 

Believe  me,  that  made  me  feel  real  Wild  Western  all 
right,  as  we  filled  our  desert  water  bag  and  set  off  again ! 
That  and  the  scurrying  kangaroo  rats,  with  black  and  white 
fur ;  and  even  in  that  heat  I  couldn  't  help  but  think,  ' '  My, 
wouldn't  a  muff  of  them  look  good  with  a  black  velvet 
dress!" 

Well,  anyways,  off  we  went  again  into  the  nowhere,  and 
stayed  there,  traveling  under  a  sun  which  gradually  toward 
noon  dried  the  color  out  of  the  brush,  until  we  come  to 
the  fork,  and  acting  as  directed  took  the  right  and  pres- 
ently were  on  the  banks  of  the  Little  Colorado. 

Well,  I'll  tell  the  world  I  never  thought  we  could  do  it 
when  I  saw  that  ford !  Down  the  steepest,  muddiest  bank 
probably  in  the  world,  and  over  a  sort  of  double  river, 
with  apparently  no  bottom  to  it,  except  where  it  humped 
up  into  a  sand  bar  that  we  also  had  to  cross.  The  only 


2C>8  West  Broadway 

thing  give  us  any  courage  was  that  there  was  wheelmarks 
on  the  other  bank.  This  was  no  fake  like  the  other  rivers 
we  had  met,  and  had  not  alone  water  in  it,  but  muddy 
water. 

"Oy,  gevalt!  We'll  have  to  rush  it,  that's  all!"  says 
Tom,  who  was  by  now  being  let  drive  again.  And  so  we 
sat  tight,  and  I  closed  my  eyes  in  the  true  womanly  way 
and  we  rushed  her.  I  won't  forget  the  gurgling  sound 
the  old  bus  made  going  through  that  river  in  a  long  time ! 
But  we  made  it,  and  after  a  struggle  we  got  on  the 'trail 
again,  and  I  was  free  to  look  around  for  more  art. 

And  I  saw  it!  Out  of  the  horizon  line  had  sprung  an 
endless  red  mesa;  a  solid  wall,  hundreds  of  feet  high  and 
the  color  of  old-fashioned  fuschias — magenta.  The  opal 
plain  led  up  to  it  in  a  subtle  wave  of  color  that  I  haven't 
got  words  to  tell  about.  But  I  can  tell  this  much:  No 
picture  you'll  ever  see  of  the  Bad  Lands  can  be  a  exaggera- 
tion of  its  colors,  nor  yet  a  true  representation  of  their 
vivid  delicacy. 

A  person  could  drool  along  about  it  by  the  hour.  But 
they  don't — not  if  they  want  to  keep  their  friends.  Even 
friends  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  though,  it's  an 
awful  temptation  to  go  on.  Only,  go  on  is  what  we  didn  't 
do.  Because  pretty  soon  we  come  to  Bill  Wilson's  place 
— a  long,  narrow  shack  completely  surrounded  by  nothing. 

I'll  bet  there  are  not  over  six  trees  on  the  reservation, 
and  none  of  them  less  than  twenty-five  miles  from  Bill  Wil- 
son's place.  There  it  sits  soaking  up  the  sun  until  it  has 
soaked  clean  through  the  roof  and  into  the  heart  of  that 
man. 

When  we  saw  him  first  he  was  standing  outside  the 
door  feeding  watermelon  to  the  chickens.  He  looked  up 
when  he  heard  us  coming,  but  he  didn't  hurry  away  from 
what  he  was  doing.  He  never  hurried,  Bill  didn't;  yet  he 
was  one  who  got  countless  things  done.  He  was  never 


West  Broadway  209 

surprised  either;  yet  he  was  always  open-minded.  He 
had  that  look  of  seeing  great  distances  in  his  eyes  that 
men  get  out  there  and  nowheres  else.  The  heart  of  a 
dreamer  showed  through  them — the  heart  of  a  dreamer  and 
the  .shrewdness  of  a  Yankee. 

" Howdy,"  he  said.  And  we  said  it,  and  then  we  asked 
the  way,  and  he  told  us  in  his  slow,  mellow  accents.  With 
the  store  behind  him,  hung  with  bright  beads,  guns, 
tinned  goods  and  so  forth,  I  felt  like  I  was  seeing  a  picture 
or  something. 

"How  far  to  Oraibi?"  says  Jim. 

"Oh,  about  sixty  miles,"  says  he.    No  surprise,  see? 

' '  Good  road  ? ' '  says  Jim. 

"You  can  make  it,"  says  Wilson  noncommittal. 

Then  he  offered  us  watermelon  with  the  same  generous 
impartiality  with  which  he  had  give  it  to  the  chickens, 
while  his  pretty  wife,  a  cozy  middle-aged  woman,  come  out 
and  listened  while  he  told  us  how  to  go. 

"Better  take  along  a  melon,"  he  says  when  he  was 
through.  And  he  gives  us  one — a  gift ! 

I  can't  hardly  tell  you  how  this  trader,  even  after  these 
few  words,  made  me  feel ;  but  it  was  a  little  the  way  I  felt 
when  I  saw  the  golden  eagle. 

We  left  them,  then,  thinking  not  to  see  any  more  of 
them.  But  that's  all  a  person  on  a  journey  knows!  For 
hardly  had  we  got  two  miles  away  when  all  of  a  sudden, 
without  warning  we  was  stuck  hard  and  fast  on  the  adobe 
shores  of  a  dried-up  lake ! 

Well,  it  was  Illinois  all  over  again,  only  this  time  under 
a  early  afternoon  sun,  forty  miles  from  any  place  and 
wild  Indians  all  around.  All  around  is  right.  For  pretty 
soon  they  actually  were,  having  apparently  sprung  up  out 
of  the  sand,  horses  and  all,  until  ten  of  them  was  sitting 
in  a  circle  watching  the  Colby  sinking  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  mud,  and  don't  tell  me  Navajos  have  no  sense  of 


21O  West  Broadway 

humor,  for  they  certainly  appreciated  our  efforts  to  dig 
out.  But  appreciate  is  all  they  did,  for  not  one  of  them 
even  offered  to  lend  a  hand.  They  were  a  bunch  of  loafers 
with  fine  teeth,  but  all  they  gave  us  was  the  hoot,  and 
when  we  asked  them  to  help  they  wouldn't  leave  us  touch 
their  horses  and  didn't  even  answer  us  back — no,  not  al- 
though when  English  failed  us  Tom  tried  a  little  Yiddish, 
but  to  no  avail.  I  found  out  then  why  they  call  that  place 
the  reservation.  It  is  because  the  Indians  is  so  reserved. 

Well,  when  we  was  just  about  exhausted,  who  like  a 
couple  of  angels  in  a  flivver  should  appear  but  Pop  Wil- 
son and  his  son.  They  had  seen  us  in  trouble  with  a  tele- 
scope from  their  roof  and  come  out  to  help ! 

I  don't  want  to  say  anything  more  about  them  folks 
except  this:  That  I  never  had  help  handed  out  to  me 
before  with  such  quiet  generosity;  that  they  unmired  us 
and  invited  us  to  stay  overnight;  they  give  us  bed  and 
board  and  oil  and  gas  and  help  and  a  mighty  pleasant 
visit.  And  wouldn  't  take  a  cent  for  any  of  it ! 

Can  you  beat  that  ?  No,  not  outside  of  America !  And 
we  was  so  green,  so  used  to  paying  through  our  nose  for 
everything  we  got,  whether  satisfactory  or  not,  that  at  first 
we  couldn't  understand  it  when  we  left  next  morning 
early,  and  they  were  genuinely  hurt  when  we  tried  to  pay. 
We  hadn  't  yet  learned  that  there  is  still  a  big  piece  of  this 
man's  country  where  people  help  you  just  because  you  are 
in  trouble,  and  where  if  there  is  no  inn  the  stranger  is 
the  native's  guest.  It  is  a  kind  of  customary  investment 
that  they  make  against  their  own  need.  Bread  upon  the 
desert  sands.  Do  you  get  it?  We  did  after  a  while.  But 
it  was«all  done  for  us  in  such  a  fine,  unconscious  manner 
that  it  took  a  good  while  to  sink  in. 

And  as  we  drove  off  with  waving  and  shouting  and 
promises  to  stop  in  on  our  way  back  I  thanked  God  for 
Americans  like  them,  and  turned  my  face  toward  the  great 


West  Broadway  211 

curve  of  the  Red  Mesa,  along  whose  base  we  were  to 
travel  into  the  land  of  sky  cities. 

On  and  on  we  went  under  the  burning  sky,  past  little 
Navajo  tepees,  past  picturesque  Indian  camp  fires  smolder- 
ing along  the  way,  surrounded  by  pale-face  soup  cans 
quite,  quite  empty!  For,  believe  me,  the  tourists  have 
nothing  on  the  Navajos  for  messiness,  and  heaven  help 
a  landscape  if  the  both  of  them  get  into  it ! 

Past  wagon  loads  of  Navies  we  went,  and  out  along  the 
dangerous  edge  of  the  deep  Oraibi  wash,  stopping  to  eat 
Ma  Wilson's  beautiful  lunch  at  Little  Burro  Springs, 
where  in  the  shade  of  three  lonesome  cottonwoods  the  water 
flies  out  of  the  rock  into  what  might  of  been  Rachel's  well, 
and  where  a  Navajo  woman  with  three  naked  babies  and 
a  loafer  of  a  husband  was  weaving  a  bright  blanket,  just 
like  the  railway  prospectus  says  they  do. 

Then  out  of  the  sharp  cool  of  the  shadow  once  more,  and 
into  the  blazing  sun,  along  parched  ways,  where  sheep 
corrals  were  built  into  the  sides  of  the  yellow  cliffs  and  the 
stunted  farms  of  the  Hopis  began.  Then  the  Third  Mesa 
raised  its  towering  head  out  of  the  horizon  and  we  sped 
on  to  meet  it,  flinging  past  a  wagon  train  and  through  the 
loose  sand  that  means  a  village  is  near,  and  arrived  in 
midafternoon  before  the  palace  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent. 

I  don't  need  to  give  any  other  name.  Anybody  who 
ever  went  near  Oraibi  will  know  it,  and  the  ones  who 
haven't  been  there  will  get  a  good  idea  of  what  he  is  like 
from  what  I  call  him.  He  is  the  man  who  has  the  local 
trading  post,  and  there  was  a  famous  Italian  named  the 
same.  This  Lorenzo's  got  a  dash  of  Latin  blood,  too,  that 
makes  him  all  the  magnificenter.  And  when  he  heard  our 
car  he  come  out  of  the  palace  and  greeted  us.  And  when 
we  told  him  who  we  was  he  right  away  invited  us  to  stay 
overnight  or  as  long  as  we  wanted  to — and  believe  me 
we  took  him  up  on  that ! 


212  West  Broadway 

I'll  never  forget  Lorenzo  as  I  seen  him  first — a  stout 
young  man  with  a  largeness  that  was  more  than  his  physi- 
cal largeness  about  him,  his  eyes  black  as  sloes,  his  color 
high,  his  poise  superb.  Living  on  the  desert  does  one  of 
two  things  to  a  man :  It  makes  him  mean  or  it  gives  him  this 
wonderful  bigness,  this  peculiar  brand  of  poise.  And  the 
Magnificent  One  had  it. 

His  palace  was  strewn  with  rugs,  the  finest  I  have  ever 
seen.  They  was  on  the  walls,  on  the  sofas,  on  tables  and 
on  the  railings,  as  well  as  on  the  floors.  Baskets  and  pot- 
tery were  piled  in  corners,  buffalo  robes,  guns,  blankets 
dangled  from  the  rafters,  and  in  the  long  dim  shop  was  a 
treasure-trove  that  the  old  Dago  Lorenzo  had  nothing  on 
— no  kidding — thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  turquoise 
and  corals  and  silver  jewelry,  made  also  by  the  Indians, 
were  there.  And  gawdy  velvets  and  plushes  and  calicoes 
and  heavenly  pink  pop  in  shining  glass  bottles,  and  to- 
bacco and  umbrellas  and  every  darned  thing  you  can 
imagine  was  also  there,  all  in  an  ordered  disorder  that  was 
gorgeous  and  interesting  beyond  anything  you  could  think 
of.  I  almost  hated  to  leave  when  Lorenzo  told  us  to. 

"I  will  wait  supper  for  you,"  he  says.  "You  folks  go 
along  now  and  see  Oraibi — the  old  one  on  top  of  the  mesa 
— and  then  go  along  over  to  Hotevilla.  It  is  the  most 
primitive  village  in  America — just  like  they  were  in  pre- 
historic times.  It's  worth  seeing." 

Well,  I  give  one  look  up  at  that  mesa  which  has  about 
seven  thousand  feet  elevation  but  no  elevator,  and  I  won- 
dered how  could  anybody  speak  of  going  up  there  in  that 
casual  manner.  I  wondered  all  over  again  when  »we 
started,  too,  because  beside  this  trip  La  Bajada  Pass  was 
mere  infant's  work.  Over  there  we  at  least  had  grades, 
while  here  the  road,  or  what  was  called  a  road,  just  went 
straight  up,  and  nobody  had  worked  out  their  taxes  on  it 
recently  either. 


West  Broadway  213 

How  can  I  describe  old  Oraibi  or  Hotevilla  to  you?  Or 
will  I  just  lay  off  it?  No,  I  can't  do  that,  quite,  because 
these  cities  are  as  much  a  part  of  the  wonder  of  our  broad 
land  as  Chicago  is. 

Just  imagine,  then,  a  city  hung  high  in  the  clear  air 
and  built  out  of  the  yellow  rock,  so  that  from  below,  in 
the  valley,  you  can  hardly  tell  it  from  the  mesa  on  the  top 
of  which  it  stands.  Really  beautiful  houses,  they  are, 
piled  one  upon  the  other,  with  ladders  made  of  tree  trunks 
with  notches  cut  in  them  leading  to  the  upper  ones;  with 
dried  meat  and  peppers  flaming  by  the  doors,  vivid,  yellow 
peaches  spread  to  dry  upon  the  roofs,  the  beautiful  people 
— oh,  my  heavens,  but  they  are  beauties,  especially  the 
young  women — the  people  dressed  in  a  bit  of  bright  rag 
or  blanket,  for,  thank  heaven,  overalls  haven't  reached 
here  yet,  and  the  folks  mostly  go  about  as  is.  Then  there 
are  sacred  turkeys  wandering  all  about  the  place  and  Jim 
says,  "Ain't  it  strange  that  they  think  turkeys  is  sacred?" 
And  I  says,  ' '  Not  much !  Remember  what  we  had  to  pay 
for  ours  last  Thanksgiving?  Of  course  they  are  sacred!" 

At  Hotevilla  we  stood  in  one  spot  on  the  edge  of  the 
mesa  where  the  foot  trail  leads  into  the  valley,  to  which 
the  Hopis  go  every  day  to  work  in  their  fields.  To  my 
right  was  a  donkey  corral  made  by  the  simple  method  of 
building  a  fence  on  two  sides,  the  house  made  the  third 
and  the  sheer  drop  of  the  cliff  the  fourth ! 

On  my  left  was  the  head  of  the  trail  that  wound  down 
to  the  spring,  halfway  below,  in  which  one  old  bird  with 
white  hair  was  calmly  and  without  any  embarrassment  or 
bathing  suit  taking  a  cold  tub.  On  a  projecting  rock  just 
below  me  a  woman  was  taking  out  the  inner  workings  of  a 
goat  with  no  intention  of  putting  them  back.  I  '11  say  that 
goat  will  never  be  the  same  again!  And  just  like  the 
Hanging  Gardens  of  Babylon,  all  down  the  face  of  that 
great  cliff,  wherever  there  was  even  a  foothold,  were  little 


214  West  Broadway 

gardens — beautiful  little  gardens,  some  only  about  as  big 
as  a  clothes  basket,  but  well  planted  and  beautifully  cared 
for,  and  how  the  folks  ever  got  to  them  without  breaking 
their  neck  is  a  mystery.  To  see  the  Indians  toiling  up  the 
long  narrow  trail  past  the  little  hanging  gardens,  the  old 
man  at  the  spring,  the  women  bringing  up  water  in  jars 
on  their  heads,  and  the  sunset  over  all  of  it — well,  oh  boy, 
it  was  an  eyeful,  1 11  tell  the  world ! 

Now  what  I  have  put  down  is,  of  course,  something  you 
have  often  seen  on  picture  post  cards  and  ect.  Probably 
there  is  nothing  new  to  you  in  what  I  have  told.  But  I  am 
now  about  to  shoot  something  which  had  ought  to  get 
President  Harding  '&  immediate  attention,  along  with  the 
not  over  seven  million  other  things  which  also  need  attend- 
ing to  at  once. 

We  have  in  our  midst,  or  to  be  exact,  in  our  Southwest, 
a  people  who  had  ought  to  be  preserved  intact  as  a  national 
monument.  "We  talk  a  lot  about  our  national  parks,  and 
God  knows  they  should  be  preserved.  But  when  it  comes 
to  our  national  peoples,  why  don 't  we  try  to  preserve  them  ? 
We  try  to  change  them,  to  reform  them!  It's  like  trying 
to  bring  the  ancient  temples  up  to  date  with  sanitary 
plumbing,  elevators  and  other  improvements,  and  just  as 
sacrilegious.  Here  we  got  a  perfect  specimen  of  Life  as  it 
was  in  Bible  times,  and  so  far  nobody  but  me  seems  to  of 
realized  that  they,  the  Hopis,  should  be  preserved  in  their 
own  customs,  habits,  way  of  living  and  dressing,  without 
any  interference,  except  maybe  a  doctor  once  in  a  while 
to  keep  down  trachoma,  which  is  almost  the  only  disease 
they  ever  get.  They  should  be  preserved  a/id  protected  as 
a  work  of  art,  so  the  other,  newer  Americans  can  see  and 
know  them  and  benefit  by  the  beautiful  pottery  and  bas- 
kets they  make. 

Now  lookit!  There  are  only  about  a  thousand  of  the 
Hopis  left  on  their  three  high  mesas.  They  are  hard- 


West  Broadway  215 

working,  happy,  thrifty  and  beautiful.  They  are  absolute- 
ly friendly  except  when  the  boneheaded  Government  sends 
soldiers  in  to  take  their  children  away  to  school  by  force — 
to  a  school,  mind  you,  that  they  don't  like  or  believe  in 
nor  need !  If  they  was  mischievous  like  the  Navajos,  -why 
that  would  be  something  different. 

But  they  are  not.  They  have  their  own  religion,  a  wor- 
ship of  air  and  sun  and  rain  and  fertility.  Why  not  leave 
them  have  it?  They  invented  it  a  long  time  before  our 
religion,  and  they  think  it  good.  And  if  they  think  it 
good  and  it  harms  no  one,  why  not  leave  them  be? 

Now  another  thing.  Why  take  the  young  ones  by  force 
away  to  school?  What  does  it  get  them?  The  girls  get 
taught  cooking  and  sewing!  My  heavens,  they  can  learn 
it  better  on  the  mesa !  The  boys  get  everything  except 
agriculture.  Just  think  of  the  stupidity  of  not  teaching 
a  Hopi  agriculture — a  Hopi,  who  for  thousands  of  years 
has  made  stuff  grow  where  nothing  could !  What  do  they 
want  to  learn  to  read  or  write  for?  They  mostly  go  right 
back  to  the  mesa,  anyways.  They  need  reservoirs  for  irri- 
gation far  more  than  they  need  schools. 

What's  the  good  of  teaching  the  girls  to  cook  if  they 
don't  give  the  boys  the  water  with  which  to  raise  some- 
thing to  eat? 

We  got  a  grand  chance  to  do  something  no  other  nation 
has  done  if  we  would  only  jump  in  and  make  a  national 
monument  of  the  Hopis.  It's  not  too  late  yet.  But  we 
ought  to  get  action  soon — make  it  snappy. 

The  Hopi  cuts  his  hair  like  a  Greenwich  Villager,  but 
that  is  the  only  radical  thing  about  him.  If  I  was  running 
Washington  I  would  certainly  preserve  him  in  his  natural 
state  at  least  as  much  as  the  wild  game  is  preserved  in  the 
Yellowstone.  He  is  quite  as  important  and  a  darned 
sight  more  interesting  and  productive ! 

Well,  anyways,  we  talked  this  all  over  and  got  it  settled 


216  West  Broadway 

coming  home  over  the  mesa,  from  which  in  the  sunset  the 
Oraibi  Valley  looked  like  a  huge  hollow  of  molten  gold. 
Driving  down  into  it  was  like  entering  an  immense  bur- 
nished opium  bowl.  And  that  night  Lorenzo  the  Magnifi- 
cent talked  the  idea  over  with  us,  and  agreed  we  had  the 
right  dope,  and  he,  being  out  among  these  people  for  two 
generations,  meaning  his  father  before  him,  and  they  all 
love  him,  ought  to  know. 

"We  sat  in  the  moonlight  and  talked.  And  then  after 
a  while  we  just  sat,  because  the  full  moon  on  the  desert  is 
like  no  other  moon,  and  you  want  to  sit  in  silence  and  look 
at  it.  Such  whiteness,  such  shadows,  such  a  silver  radi- 
ance— the  moon  herself  seems  bigger  on  the  desert.  To 
stand  in  it  is  to  be  bathed  in  quicksilver.  That 's  how  you 
feel. 

I  wanted  never,  never  to  go  home.  And  the  Magnificent 
One,  with  his  limitless  kindness  and  hospitality  would  of 
let  us  stay  on  and  board  free  with  him  forever,  I  guess, 
if  we  had  said  so. 

But  like  any  perfect  thing,  our  stay  back  in  the  simple 
early  ages  of  the  world  had  come  to  an  end,  and  eventually 
we  had  to  beat  it,  hoping  most  sincerely  we  can  some  day 
go  back.  Actually  as  we  drew  near  Winslow  I  began  to 
understand  what  Bill  Wilson,  who  lived  thirty  miles  out 
on  the  desert,  meant  when  he  told  us  that  on  his  vacation 
he  was  going  back  into  the  mountains  to  do  some  shooting 
and  get  away  from  civilization.  And  I  thought  it  still 
when  Tom  come  out  of  the  Winslow  telegraph  office  with  a 
message  in  his  hand  and  shouting. 

"It's  all  right!"  he  says.  "She's  wired  that  they  left 
the  canyon  yesterday.  Hurrah!  Now  we  can  go  on!" 

And  even  while  he  was  speaking  I  saw  the  big  familiar 
red  automobile  easing  down  the  street  towards  us. 


XV 


I  WAS  glad  that  the  auto  is  so  mobile  that  it  could  take 
me  places  where  the  railroads  couldn't,  and  when  I  saw 
that  big  red  bus  coming  at  us  my  first  thought  was  well, 
let  us  turn  around  and  beat  it  back  to  Oraibi,  and  on  the 
lonely  desert  sands  let  the  best  car  win  if  they  follow  us, 
and  if  we  scalp  them  out  there  in  the  silent  spaces,  why  it 
will  be  blamed  on  the  Navajos. 

But  like  most  fears,  mine  got  busy  too  soon,  because  when 
the  red  car  come  abreast  of  us,  by  gollies,  it  wasn't  our  red 
car  at  all  but  a  much  newer  model,  with  a  bunch  of  duck 
hunters  in  it  on  their  way  to  Red  Lake  out  on  the  reserva- 
tion, where,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  there  are  no  end  of 
ducks. 

And  these  hunters  had  with  them  some  stuff  which  had 
been  perhaps  bottled  in  bond  and  was  rapidly  being  unbot- 
tled  in  bondage,  and  it 's  a  wonderful  thing,  but  fishermen 
and  hunters  still  manage  to  get  it.  I  have  noticed  that  a 
good  many  times. 

Well,  these  birds,  far  from  pinching  us,  passed  right 
along  by  singing  that  well-known  old  Italian  song,  "My 
Marie  Hooch,  she  taka  steamboat — she  sail  away!" 

And  while  they  was  an  interesting  sight  out  in  these  dry 
and  arid  regions,  we  didn't  want  to  catch  them;  but  with 
Jim  for  some  reason  singing  If  a  Wish  Could  Make  it 
So !  we  started  carefree  and  happy  toward  what  had  from 
the  start  been  the  real  heart  of  our  trip — the  Grand  Can- 
yon. 

It  is  a  mercy  that  it  is  led  up  to  gradually.  If  a  person 
was  to  have  the  canyon  sprung  on  them  all  of  a  sudden 
217 


218  West  Broadway 

they  might  die  of  it.  I  personally  myself  don't  see  how 
the  ones  that  come  on  the  train  from  Williams  and  walk 
carelessly  up  to  the  parapet  in  front  of  the  hotel  stand 
the  shock.  It  ain't  right  to  ask  a  person  to  look  into  God's 
studio  without  preparing  them  first. 

Fortunately  for  my  heart  trouble,  which  I  haven't  got 
except  when  I  can't  manage  Jim  any  other  way,  we  come 
by  car  from  just  east  of  Flagstaff  through  a  endless  yellow 
pine  forest  that  was  like  an  ancient  temple — you  know, 
one  of  those  temples  that  you  see  pictures  of  in  the  almanac 
— seven-wonders-of-the-ancient-world  stuff — only  this  tem- 
ple was  alive.  Well,  anyways,  it  give  me  a  sort  of  proper 
religious  feeling  to  drive  all  day  between  these  pine-tree 
columns,  so  straight  and  clean  and  high,  with  between  them 
here  and  there  groups  of  young  oaks,  their  leaves  turned 
to  a  fluttering  mass  of  bright  clear  yellow  that  made  them 
seem  just  as  if  jagged  handfuls  of  the  sun  had  been  torn 
off  and  dropped  down  into  the  forest  gloom. 

Well,  this  got  our  mind  sort  of  calm  and  cooled  off  and 
• — well,  sort  of  ready.  And  then,  as  if  to  break  the  news 
to  us  gradual,  the  road  left  the  forest  for  a  while  and  led 
across  a  plateau  over  the  far  edge  of  which,  very  distant 
and  unreal,  we  could  see  the  Painted  Desert.  The  chief 
thing  about  the  Painted  Desert  is  that  you  don 't  believe  in 
it,  even  after  you've  seen  it.  Perhaps  a  person  does  if 
they  actually  go  so  far — and  far  is  right,  it  is  quite 
some  distance  from  wherever  you  happen  to  be — well,  if 
you  go  so  far  as  to  actually  get  on  it.  But  to  us,  trying  to 
reach  the  El  Tovar  Hotel  before  sunset  and  traveling  fast, 
about  thirty  miles  or  so  in  the  distance  the  Painted  Desert 
was  like  a  mirage,  which  means  something  which  ain't 
there  except  in  your  own  imagination  like,  say,  the  repeal 
of  the  Eighteenth  Amendment. 

It  was  a  beautiful  mirage,  though,  and  we  got  quite 
a  kick  out  of  it.  It  lay  way  over  there  to  our  right,  like  a 


West  Broadway  219 

lake  of  pale  opal,  with  cliffs  of  pale  opal  and  the  milky 
white  jade  rising  out  of  it — a  dream  desert,  as  delicately 
lovely  and  as  deadly  treacherous  as  a  professional  vamp. 
But  seeing  first  the  forest  and  then  this  wicked  beauty  was 
like  walking  up  steps  of  expectation,  if  you  can  savvy  what 
I  mean — with  the  canyon  still  ahead  of  us  at  the  top. 
Only,  of  course,  when  we  got  there  it  was  way  at  the 
bottom.  You  know,  it's  a  hole,  not  a  mountain. 

Well,  anyways,  we  left  the  mirage  and  dashed  into  a 
royal  forest  again  over  perfect  roads  like  a  superb  private 
park,  the  sun  getting  lower  by  the  minute,  and  my  mind 
with  it,  because  I  wanted  to  see  the  canyon  for  the  first 
time  with  the  sun  in  it.  And  then  all  of  a  sudden  we  come 
on  one  of  them  ever-strangely-out-of-place-looking  signs 
which  always  made  me  feel  that  the  wilderness  was  so  thor- 
oughly Americanized  that  it  just  naturally  grew  signs  in 
correct  language — well,  anyway,  here  where  it  had  appar- 
ently grown  wild  was  a  sign  which  says  To  Grand  View. 
So  we  went  there,  and  it  was. 

I  will  never  forget  seeing  that  canyon  at  sunset  from 
Grand  View.  But  I  can't  tell  you  about  it.  Like  my  re- 
ligion, it  is  none  of  your  business  and  a  private  matter  of 
my  own.  I  do  think,  however,  that  Jim  expressed  all  our 
feelings  and  the  feelings  of  the  average  person  under  the 
same  experience  when  he  stood  beside  me  and  looked  down. 

"Holy  mackerel!"  was  what  he  said.  And  if  you  have 
been  there  you  will  know  all  that  he  meant  by  it.  If  you 
haven't  been,  there  is  no  use  in  my  trying  to  explain — 
buy  a  ticket!  That's  all  I  can  say,  except  that  that's 
where  the  saying  "A  picture  no  artist  can  paint"  origi- 
nated. 

Well,  I  don't  mind  giving  out  the  dope  on  this  place, 
because  no  tourists  can  spoil  it.  They  are  just  plain  swal- 
lowed up  by  it.  Let  'em  come,  the  canyon  won't  even  no- 
tice it !  What  is  further,  it  is  the  one  place  in  America 


22O  West  Broadway 

that  it  is  the  solemn  duty  of  every  American  to  see.  It 
will  sort  of  fix  up  and  adjust  their  mental  carburetors  so 
that  their  brain  gets  the  right  mixture.  It  will  show  them 
exactly  what  size  they  are,  and  just  how  big  they  can  grow 
to  be  if  they  are  willing  to  try.  If  they  got  any  sense  of 
proportion  at  all  it  will  give  them  a  standard  of  measure- 
ment for  a  big  part  of  life — including  the  size  of  our  great 
country  and  of  their  own  real-estate  holdings,  and  by  no 
means  excluding  their  immortal  soul. 

Most  out-of-door  places  which  are  good  for  your  heart 
and  mind  are  uncomfortable  for  your  body.  The  canyon 
is  not.  You  can  enjoy  the  music  of  the  canyon's  silence 
as  comfortably  as  you  can  enjoy  the  music  of  New  York's 
grand  opera.  And  I'm  not  at  all  sure  but  what  you  get 
the  full  benefit  of  both  when  your  body  is  so  comfortable 
that  your  mind  is  free  to  pay  no  attention  to  it. 

Not  that  my  body  was  comfortable  every  day  of  the  four 
we  stayed  there,  however.  Said  body  was  all  right  as  long 
as  I  had  sense  enough  to  remain  on  the  top  edge  of  that 
big  hole  and  hang  around  the  beautiful  gardens  and  Fred's 
best  hotel,  where  he  has  outdone  himself  and  it  don 't  look 
like  a  hotel  at  all,  but  like  the  private  hunting  lodge  of 
the  King  of  Whatsis  in  a  feature  I  once  made  called  An 
American  Queen.  Some  hotel!  The  only  rough  thing 
about  it  is  the  logs  it  is  built  out  of  and  the  sturdy  life  in 
the  wilds  you  live  there  is  accompanied  by  a  crude  Western 
sort  of  service  and  meals  such  as  you  might  expect  at  the 
Ritz. 

Well,  anyways,  as  long  as  I  remained  on  the  top  and  run 
no  greater  danger  than  what  the  near-Hopi  House  offered 
to  my  pocketbook,  where  I  almost  bought  ma  a  tomahawk 
and  then  decided  a  blanket  was  safer  with  her  tempera- 
ment, and  a  silver  ring  for  the  nurse  and  a  rattle  for 
Junior  and  a  string  of  wampum  for  Al  Goldringer  and 
about  two  hundred  post  cards  to  write  pleasant  trip  wish 


West  Broadway  221 

you  were  with  us  on.  Well,  so  long  as  I  did  this  and  hung 
around  and  watched  the  professional  Indians  shimmy  for 
the  tourists  after  supper,  and  looked  at  the  canyon  every 
once  in  a  while  to  make  sure  it  was  really  the  way  it  is 
and  that  I  hadn't  dreamed  it — why,  as  I  say,  I  was  all 
right  and  perfectly  comfortable. 

Things  were  going  nicely  in  every  way.  We  had  seen 
the  Peterkins,  who  were  camping,  of  course,  and  Alma 
told  us  how  the  bulls  had  come  by  the  camp  in  the  big 
car  and  seen  our  hound  and  stopped,  and  how  she  said 
yes,  we  had  gone  on  by  to  Los  Angeles  two  days  ago,  but 
lost  the  dog  and  they  had  fallen  for  it.  So  everything  was 
fine. 

But  could  I  leave  well  enough  alone?  Answer:  I  am 
a  woman — an  admittedly  womanly  woman.  And  so  of 
course  I  had  to  go  and  get  mixed  up  with  those  darn 
scenery-going  mules. 

Now  the  rim  of  the  Grand  Canyon  is  not  all  there  is  to 
it — not  by  any  means.  There  is  the  below  part,  and  the 
average,  sane  tourist  enjoys  looking  at  it  and  gets  a  lot  of 
satisfaction  out  of  admiring  its  beauties — the  brown  snake 
at  the  bottom  which  they  tell  you  is  the  Colorado  River, 
the  Temple  of  Isis  where  they  get  the  ice  from,  the  Battle- 
ship which  you  can  see  as  such  if  you  got  a  marine  imagina- 
tion, Thor's  Hammer,  which  looks  like  it  might  throw 
itself  any  moment,  and  so  forth.  But  there  is  always  a 
mad  minority  that  ain't  content  with  using  opera  glasses 
or  the  pieces  of  yeggman's  lead  pipe  that  are  set  about 
here  and  there  as  sort  of  Nature's  telescopes  or  something, 
and  these  minorities  have  a  craving  to  go  down  and  mingle 
with  the  scenery  instead  of  merely  looking  at  it  from  a 
respectable  distance. 

Actually  it  is  the  truth  that  the  big  and  most  debated 
question  out  there  is  will  we  go  down  the  trail  or  will  we 


222  West  Broadway 

not  go  down  the  trail?  All  over  the  place  you  will  hear 
lines  of  talk  like  this  being  pulled  perfectly  seriously. 

"I'm  crazy  to  go  down,  but  I'm  afraid  for  my  heart. 
My  doctor  has  told  me  I  got  to  be  awful  careful." 

"Oh,  nonsense!  I  ain't  a  bit  afraid,  but  I'm  not  sup- 
posed to  do  any  riding." 

"I'd  go  down  in  a  minute  if  only  I'd  thought  to  bring 
my  riding  clothes.  What's  that?  You  can  hire  them  from 
the  hotel?  Oh,  but  I'm  sure  they  would  never  have  any 
to  fit  me." 

And  a  lot  of  bunk  like  that.  The  truth  is,  you  are  kind 
of  ashamed  not  to  go  down  and  at  the  same  time  scared  to 
death  of  going.  Which  to  do,  go  down  or  stay  up,  eats 
into  your  bean.  It's  a  big  question. 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  down?"  says  Jim  with  a  touch 
of  scorn  that  hit  me  right  on  the  raw  vanity.  Of  course 
I  wasn't  scared.  That  wasn't  why  I  had  been  hanging 
back.  I  wasn't  scared  for  myself,  but  I  couldn^t  help 
thinking  of  my  duty  to  my  baby  and  my  public. 

"Sure,  I  want  to  go  down!"  I  says  with  a  sort  of  forced 
gayety  that  I  hoped  looked  natural,  but  which  probably 
looked  it  the  way  a  corpse  does.  ' '  Sure,  I  want  to  go  down ! 
Leave  us  go  over  and  talk  to  the  mule  clerk  about  it." 

This  was  in  the  late  afternoon,  see,  and  they  date  you  upi 
in  advance.  And  when  we  got  to  the  desk  who  would  be 
there  but  a  charming  young  widow  that  I  had  been 
noticing  Jim  noticing,  and  she  had  been  so  far  the  only 
drawback  to  the  canyon.  And  now  it  seems  she  was  going 
down  and  that  she  and  him  had  already  spoken!  So  he 
introduced  me. 

"Meet  my  wife,  Mrs.  Miller,"  says  Jim.  "Shake  hands 
with  Mrs.  Miller,  Marie." 

"So  pleased  to  meet  you!"  says  this  blond  cat.  "I 
think  your  husband  is  such  a  nice  man!" 


West  Broadway  223 

"That's  what  strangers  always  say  of  him/'  I  says  very 
cool.  "Are  you  going  down  into  the  canyon?" 

"Yes,  to-morrow,"  says  Mrs.  Kitty  Miller,  "and  I'm 
scared  almost  to  death.  I  hope  there  will  be  a  strong, 
brave  man  in  the  party." 

And  she  give  Jim  a  clinging-ivy  glance  and  the  poor  fish 
swelled  out  his  chest  under  it  the  way  they  do.  Then  she 
slid  off  and  left  us  exposed  to  the  humor  of  the  mule  clerk. 

"How  about  a  little  death  daring  for  to-morrow?"  says 
Jim,  trying  to  hide  his  fears  under  a  bright  exterior  and 
I  devoutly  hoping  the  party  was  all  made  up  and  no  mules 
left  for  us.  But  no  such  luck! 

"Sure!"  says  the  clerk.     "Hermit  or  Bright  Angel?" 

"Which  is  the  best  trail?"  says  Jim. 

"Well,  the  Hermit  is  sixteen  dollars  a  head  and  the 
Bright  Angel  is  five, ' '  says  the  clerk. 

"Gimme  three  Bright  Angels,"  says  Jim.  "I'd  rather 
be  scared  to  death  for  five  dollars  than  for  sixteen." 

"Is  it  really  awfully  dangerous?"  I  says,  just  for  the 
comfort  of  having  him  contradict  me. 

"Not  a  bit!"  says  the  mule  clerk.  "We  haven't  kiUed 
anybody  now  for  over  three  weeks!" 

"Huh!"  I  snorted.  "The  time  limit  must  just  about  be 
up  by  now!" 

And  then  I  walked  away,  because  I  seen  the  widow  sail- 
ing up,  and  I  left  Jim  have  her,  because  interfering  never 
does  any  good  during  these  temporary  aberrations,  which 
occur  in  all  normal  families ;  and  anyways,  I  wanted  to  go 
and  get  a  good  look  at  the  beginning  of  that  trail  all  by 
myself. 

Well,  when  I  stood  there  and  looked  down  it  I  see  at  once 
why  it  was  named  the  Bright  Angel.  It  was  called  so  be- 
cause that  was  undoubtedly  what  the  first  man  that  went 
down  it  saw  when  he  woke  up.  I  give  one  good  look  at 


224  West  Broadway 

it  and  then  went  right  back  to  the  hotel  and  give  the  mule 
clerk  some  further  instructions  about  my  mule. 

"I  want  a  good  steady  family  mule,"  I  explained  to  him. 
"One  which  has  made  the  trip  often — not  more  than 
eleven  or  less  than  thirteen  times,"  I  says.  "And  for 
preference  one  that  has  just  finished  its  latest  trip,"  I  says, 
"so  it  will  be  too  tired  to  feel  gay,  yet  not  so  depressed  as 
to  be  considering  suicide.  In  other  words,  I  want  him  to 
be  just  right.  Not  that  I'm  at  all  afraid,"  I  says.  "But 
I  got  my  public  to  consider." 

"All  right,"  says  the  mule  clerk.  "What  flo  ,you 
weigh?" 

"A  hundred  and  thirty,"  I  says. 

"Then  we'll  give  you  Napoleon,"  says  the  brave  mule- 
teer, or  whatever  his  official  name  is. 

And  then  I  went  off  kind  of  worried,  because  his  asking 
my  weight  was  sort  of  a  bad  sign,  and  I  wondered  how 
much  the  average  person  lost  by  the  end  of  the  trip.  But 
I  wasn't  through  with  my  precautions — not  by  a  darned 
sight ! 

The  next  thing  I  done  was  to  get  the  head  waiter  to  let 
me  have  two  nice  red  juicy  apples — the  handsomest,  tasti- 
est fancy  table  apples,  they  was.  Not  that  I  believe  in 
bribery,  but  still  it  does  a  person  no  harm  to  have  a  friend 
in  the  right  quarter  in  time  of  need,  so  I  took  the  apples 
over  to  the  stable  and  had  a  quiet  personal  interview  with 
my  mule.  I  felt  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  me  in  the 
morning  if  we  had  met  before  and  he  had  got  a  pleasant 
impression  of  me.  So  I  got  one  of  the  mule  punchers  in 
charge  to  show  me  which  was  Nap  and  then  I  and  he  had 
a  little  heart-to-heart  talk,  during  which  I  slipped  him  the 
apples  in  a  unobtrusive  way  so  as  not  to  hurt  his  finer 
feelings  or  make  him  feel  that  I  was  trying  to  buy  his 
interest. 

"Mule,"  I  says  to  him  when  sure  that  we  was  alone  at 


West  Broadway  225 

last — "mule,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  as  two  equals — you 
and  me.  I  know  you  ain't  a  parent,  but  I  am;  and  just 
because  you  are  a  natural-born  bachelor  is  no  reason  why 
you  can't  respect  a  mother's  wishes.  I'm  going  to  depend 
on  you,  Nap,  to  take  me  down  and  bring  me  back  whole, 
and  I  hope  you  are  going  to  act  like  a  good  sound  American 
he  mule  and  treat  me  like  a  gentleman  and  not  pull  any 
of  the  rough  stuff  that  your  famous  namesake  was  noted 
for  with  women." 

And  then  when  I  hoped  I  had  impressed  this  on  him 
thoroughly  but  was  by  no  means  sure  I  had,  for  all  he  eat 
both  apples  without  remark,  I  left  him  to  see  could  I  buy 
me  a  couple  of  rabbits  left  hind  feet  in  the  Hopi  House 
and  also  if  possible  a  pair  of  handcuffs  to  cuff  my  feet  to- 
gether under  the  mule's  belly.  But  was  in  both  cases 
unfortunately  out  of  luck.  So  I  bought  a  pin  and  a  In- 
dian vase  tnat  looked  like  some  Indian  had  sat  on  it  while 
it  was  still  soft,  instead,  because  I  never  could  get  out  of 
that  place  without  spending  some  money.  And  then  I  felt 
better.  It's  a  funny  thing,  but  whenever  I  am  kind  of 
tired  and  nervous  if  I  spend  a  little  money  I  feel  better 
right  away. 

But  just  the  same  I  didn't  sleep  very  good  that  night. 
The  canyon  sat  on  my  chest  like  a  welsh  rabbit,  if  you  get 
the  idea,  and  I  kept  tossing  around  and  wondering  in  the 
wild  way  a  person  does  in  the  dark  of  a  sleepless  night 
whatever  possessed  me  to  say  I  would  do  such  a  thing. 
But  I  wasn  't  as  glad  when  morning  come  as  a  person  gen- 
erally is  after  not  being  able  to  sleep.  But  of  course  there 
was  no  getting  away  from  morning,  and  so  when  heavily 
urged  by  Jim  I  got  up  finally  and  put  on  my  riding  clothes 
which  I  had  up  to  now  swaggered  around  in  them  a  good 
deal.  And  then  I  added  my  false  and  hollow  cheerfulness 
to  his  ditto  and  we  went  down  to  breakfast,  which  I  ate 


226  West  Broadway 

recklessly  because  of  realizing  it  might  be  my  last  meal 
on  earth. 

Well,  then  we  went  out  and  got  our  tickets  off  the  cashier 
and  was  politely  requested  to  pay  for  them  in  advance. 
When  the  trip  was  over  I  realized  why.  It  is  because  they 
would  rather  be  sure  of  the  cash  than  be  sued  for  dam- 
ages, including  loss  of  use  of  a  person's  seating  capacity, 
if  you  get  me. 

Well  anyways,  we  got  and  paid  for  those  tickets  to 
eternity,  and  pretty  soon  Tom  Westman  come  up,  because 
he  was  determined  to  die  with  us,  and  he  and  Jim  actually 
pretended  they  was  looking  forward  to  it.  Well,  looking 
forward  is  what  you  have  to  do.  There  is  no  use  looking 
back,  once  you  get  started  on  the  blame  trip. 

By  now  the  mule  clerk  had  put  on  a  cap  like  a  ship's 
first  officer  and  stood  at  the  gangway  to  the  corral  with  a 
women-and-children-first  expression  on  his  face,  and  com- 
menced to  shove  us  ruthlessly  over  to  where  the  mules  was 
waiting  with  a  bored  expression  on  their  faces,  which  was, 
however,  no  comfort  to  me.  I  give  the  crowd  the  once- 
over and  then  I  got  at  least  one  satisfaction.  That  nasty 
widow,  Mrs.  Miller,  had  on  a  costume  which  looked  like 
something  the  plumber  had  left  the  last  time  he  fixed  the 
leak  in  the  boiler.  Also,  there  was  Alma  in  what  his 
helper  had  left,  and  a  fat  middle-aged  Irishwoman, 
Lady  Bridget  Something,  who  was  all  dressed  up  in  the 
plumber's  grandfather's  outfit  and  protesting  a  lot  about 
it  too.  Jim  had  the  real  costume,  and  the  other  men — 
Tom,  a  silent  fellow  with  an  inquisitive,  active  camera  that 
never  stopped  working  all  day,  and  of  all  the  people, 
Mister  Fixit,  real  name  of  Jones,  the  1921  Colby-Droit 
party — well,  they  had  on  merely  borrowed  putties,  being 
by  nature  provided  with  garments  that  would  ride  astride 
of  a  mule.  But  of  all  the  women,  I  was  the  only  one  had 
proper  riding  clothes,  and  by  that  I  mean  proper  in  the 


West  Broadway  227 

sense  of  being  correct,  but  not  too  proper  to  be  snappy. 

For  a  moment  this  went  to  my  head,  and  I  thought  gee, 
lookit  Mrs.  Miller,  ain't  she  a  sight  beside  me?  And  then 
a  horrible  realization  come  over  me  and  I  went  right  over 
to  the  guide,  a  young  cow-puncher  by  the  name  of  Slim 
with  a  pair  of  female  pink  satin  garters  on  his  sleeves 
and  hair  on  his  chaps  but  none  on  his  upper  lip. 

"Say,  brother,"  I  says,  "don't  get  me  wrong  because 
of  these  clothes.  I  got  the  costume,  but  I  don't  know  the 
part.  Don't  ask  me  to  do  any  daring  feats  of  muleman- 
ship,  will  you?" 

Well,  he  give  me  a  slow,  amused  smile  at  that  and 
answered  in  the  slow,  soft  way  these  roughnecks  have. 

"Say,  marm,"  he  says,  "we  long  ago  learned  to  know 
that  clothes  don't  make  the  rider.  A  guide  in  charge  of 
one  of  these  parties  don't  fall  for  that  mistake  but  once." 

"Well,  the  fatal  hour  had  struck,  and  with,  I  confess, 
a  beating  heart  I  walked  over  to  Napoleon,  a  sickly  smile 
of  greeting  on  my  face.  But  all  the  brute  give  me  was  a 
glassy  stare.  He  didn't  even  bow — I  didn't  get  even  a 
smile  of  recognition  out  of  him,  or  anything.  Anybody 
would  of  thought  we  was  meeting  for  the  first  time.  But 
there  was  nothing  for  it  except  to  risk  his  temperament, 
because  the  folks  was  already  riding  out  of  the  corral  and 
I  at  least  done  honor  to  my  pants  by  getting  onto  Nap 
alone.  No  sooner  had  I  done  so  than  I  was  on  my  way. 
I  hadn't  touched  the  reins  nor  made  a  single  remark  to 
that  animal  beyond  good  morning,  but  off  he  went. 

' '  Leave  the  reins  loose !  Don 't  try  to  guide  your  mules ! ' ' 
shouted  Slim.  "Leave  them  alone!  They  will  bring  you 
down  safe !  Leave  them  do  it  all ! " 

Behind  me,  as  we  trotted  out,  I  could  hear  Lady  Bridget 
complaining. 

"But  I  must  have  a  sidesaddle!"  she  was  insisting.    "I 


228  West  Broadway 

don't  wish  to  ride  astride.  I'm  perfectly  accustomed  to 
an  English  sidesaddle!" 

Can  you  beat  it? 

"No  sidesaddles,  marm,"  says  Slim  firmly.  "This  here 
mule  wouldn  't  know  what  to  make  of  it.  Can 't  you  ride  ? ' ' 

"Of  course  I  can  ride!"  says  Lady  Bridget.  "I  have 
ridden  every  kind  of  creature  all  my  life — including  camels. 
But  I  always  use  a  sidesaddle.  It  is  the  correct  way  to 
ride." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  Slim  answered  when  he  was 
told  how  to  ride,  for  by  now  we  was  trotting  ruthlessly 
to  our  fate,  the  narrow  top  of  that  trail  getting  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  I  quickly  realized  there  would  be  no  use  trying 
to  persuade  Nap  to  stop  or  even  to  hesitate.  Where  the 
other  mules  went,  there  he  was  going,  too,  and  I  was  in 
the  middle  of  the  bunch.  Nap  was  a  social  animal.  He 
liked  to  keep  up  with  the  crowd.  Indeed,  sometimes  he 
liked  to  try  and  pass  them  on  a  curve,  which  certainly 
shows  nerve  at  any  rate.  Also,  it  takes  nerve  on  his  rider's 
part. 

Closer  and  more  fatally  we  come  to  the  beginnings  of 
the  Bright  Angel,  and  never,  believe  me,  did  the  canyon 
look  as  deep  or  the  walls  as  steep  or  the  rim  so  good  as  at 
the  moment  when  the  mule  ahead  of  me  just  naturally 
vanished  around  the  first  turn  and  mine  followed  without 
hesitation. 

"Oh,  why  did  I  ever  leave  the  church f"  I  thought  as  I 
plunged  to  my  death  over  the  edge  of  that  two-foot-wide- 
trail.  Only  of  course  I  didn't  plunge  to  it  at  all,  but 
rounded  the  corner  alive  and,  still  moving.  Then  we 
rounded  another  corner,  with  Nap 's  head  sticking  out  over 
the  edge  of  about  five  thousand  feet  of  nothingness,  his 
hoofs  slipping  and  his  differential  sort  of  loose-sounding. 
I  hung  onto  the  pummel  and  shut  my  eyes,  leaving  go 
of  the  reins  entirely,  and  now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 


West  Broadway  229 

my  country  'tis  of  thee  flashing  through  my  Ibrain.  And 
then  I  opened  up  again,  and  saw  that  we  had  stopped  to 
get  our  photograph  taken  for  the  home  folks  to  remember 
us  by;  and  we  stopped  just  in  time,  as  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned, because  Napoleon  had  parked  himself  with  his 
head  and  one  front  leg  hanging  over  the  cliff.  And  there 
I  sat  with  nothing  between  me  and  my  Maker  but  a  mule, 
and  no  wonder  I  looked  like  I  did  in  the  still  the  photog- 
rapher took,  and  it's  the  first  time  I  ever  had  one  that 
I  wasn't  unwilling  should  be  retouched. 

Well,  this  photographer,  which  it  seems  to  me  he  took 
quite  a  risk  for  the  money,  coming  down  the  face  of  the 
cliff  to  get  us,  pulled  a  line  of  humorous  talk  about  how 
we  was  the  first  party  ever  went  down  and  so  forth,  but 
I  was  in  no  frame  of  mind  to  see  humor  in  anything. 

And  when  the  guide,  who  took  the  whole  thing  with 
the  most  amazing  calm,  says  "Yup!"  and  the  mules 
yupped  along  again,  I  don't  know  did  I  feel  relieved  or 
not. 

For  one  thing  Napoleon's  wheel  base  was  so  long  that 
a  part  of  him  always  hung  out  over  the  cliff  on  a  turn, 
and  the  more  he  done  so  the  less  I  got  used  to  it.  Also, 
he  had  some  private  quarrel  with  the  widow's  mule  which 
was  just  ahead,  and  kept  biting  it  on  the  knees.  Of 
course,  under  any  other  circumstances  I  would  of  been 
glad,  but  as  it  was,  for  all  our  sakes  I  wished  he  would 
lay  off  until  they  got  home  to  the  barn. 

The  widow  kind  of  liked  it,  though  she  kept  giving  little 
professional  squeals  of  fright  and  appealing  to  the  great 
strong  men  to  help  her.  Help  her,  my  eye!  A  mule 
couldn't  scare  that  female.  But  he  could  me.  Especially 
when  we  rested  and  Napoleon  would  lean  deliberately  way 
over  the  edge  to  see  was  there  any  pills  on  the  quinine 
bushes  that  grew  almost  out  of  his  reach. 


230  West  Broadway 

After  a  few  turns,  Lady  Bridget,  the  camel  rider,  give 
a  shriek. 

"I've  got  to  get  off  and  walk!"  she  says.  "I  must  get 
off  and  walk!" 

"Ho!"  says  Slim,  and  we  hoed  while  he  helped  her 
down. 

"The  mule  won't  guide,"  says  Lady  Bridget.  "And 
I'm  not  afraid — it's  all  this  miserable  saddle.  I'd  be  all 
right  on  an  English  saddle." 

"Don't  try  to  guide  your  mule!"  says  Slim  as  patient 
as  a  kindergarten  teacher.  "I  told  you  not  to  try  to 
guide  him.  Just  let  the  reins  lie  loose.  You've  been 
holding  up  the  whole  party  by  keeping  your  reins  tight — 
well,  all  right,  walk  then!" 

And  we  commenced  going  along  down  slowly,  Lady 
Bridget  ahead  of  the  party  and  prolonging  the  agony  for 
all  the  rest  of  us,  but  not  giving  a  darn  so  long  as  she 
had  her  own  way. 

"Say,  Slim,"  I  yelled  as  Nap  for  the  third  time  tried 
to  brush  me  off  on  a  convenient  bush,  showing  no  grati- 
tude for  past  favors — like  most  bribe  takers — "say,  Slim, 
how  much  further  to  the  halfway  house?" 

1 '  About  three  miles ! "  he  yells  back.    ' '  Getting  scared  1 ' ' 

"Oh,  no,  I  am  happy  as  a  bird!"  I  says,  and  just  to 
show  how  brave  I  was  I  commenced  singing  that  well- 
known  and  appropriate  ballad: 

There's  a  long,  long  trail  a-winding 
I'm  going  to  see  it  in  my  dreams! 

"I  want  to  get  back  on  my  mule!"  called  Lady  Bridget. 
And  we  got  her  back — somehow — no  easy  job  it  was,  either. 
And  she  pulled  the  reins  up  tight  again. 

"Don't  do  that!"  yelled  Slim. 

"It's  the  proper  way  to  ride!"  retorted  Lady  Bridget 


West  Broadway  231 

firmly.  "Young  man,  I  have  ridden  all  my  life  and  I 
ought  to  know!" 

"Well,  do  you  see  that  heap  of  stones?"  says  Slim 
grimly  pointing  to  one  the  trail  menders  had  left.  "Well, 
that's  where  we  buried  a  cow-puncher  that  tried  to  guide 
a  mule." 

"My  word!"  said  Lady  Bridget,  impressed  for  the 
moment.  "Why  didn't  you  bring  the  poor  fellow  out  and 
bury  him  properly  in  the  cemetery?" 

' '  Oh,  we  never  pack  'em  out  when  they  die  down  here, ' ' 
says  Slim  carelessly.  "We  just  bury  'em  where  they 
fall!" 

"Tut,  tut!"  says  Her  Ladyship  over  and  over  again, 
full  of  concern.  But  I  noticed  she  left  her  mule  be  after 
that. 

Well,  just  as  I  had  found  out  how  to  stick  onto  Nap, 
which  was  by  holding  the  pummel  tight  with  both  hands, 
they  made  us  get  off  and  walk.  Then  I  seen  why  the 
mules  slipped  so.  In  fact  I  also  slipped,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  hang  on  to.  Then  we  got  mounted  again,  and 
I  suppose  we  went  through  a  lot  of  handsome  scenery, 
but  believe  me,  the  finest  part  of  it  to  me  was  a  couple 
of  brass  beds  out  in  the  yard  at  the  halfway  house.  Also 
a  beautiful  bubbling  spring  down  there  and  a  handsome 
dipper  to  get  cold  drinking  water  out  of  it  with. 

Well,  after  a  few  minutes  of  personal  liberty  that 
heartless  cuss  Slim  herded  us  onto  the  mules  again  and 
cut  us  a  new  lot  of  switches.  Although  why  in  heaven's 
name  them  guides  give  you  switches  for  them  mules  when 
brakes  is  what  you  most  desire  is  more  than  I  can  say. 
And  when  we  was  back  in  the  saddle,  which  by  now  felt 
exactly  the  way  a  new  shoe  does  when  you  put  it  on 
again  in  the  morning  after  the  first  blister  has  broke,  we 
set  off  over  the  misleading  plateau,  all  unsuspecting  the 


232  West  Broadway 

Devil's  Corkscrew  that  lay  ahead,  Jim  and  Tom  actually 
enjoying  it,  and  I  and  Alma  in  silent  misery. 

From  now  on  the  party  was  only  delayed  now  and  then 
to  pick  up  the  camera  fiend,  whose  camera  would  get  out 
of  control  and  stop  to  take  a  picture,  or  to  let  Lady 
Bridget  walk,  or  demonstrate  the  way  to  ride  sidesaddle, 
because  she  was  that  kind  of  a  nature.  She  had  started 
out  to  ride  side,  and  believe  me,  she  actually  ended  by 
doing  it ! 

And  after  we  had  gone  down  to  the  river  over  a  abso- 
lutely impassable  place  that  you  couldn't  go  over  without 
losing  your  life  but  did,  why  we  forded  three  clear-as- 
crystal  streams  to  the  muddy  Colorado  River,  and  at  length 
had  a  chance  to  admire  the  grandeur  of  the  scenery  and 
also  the  grand  box  luncheon. 

There  is  no  use  talking,  you  can't  beat  the  Grand 
Canyon.  It  is  the  only  seventh  wonder  of  the  world  that 
is  absolutely  sure  to  be  better  than  represented.  To  me, 
sitting  there  on  the  fine  white  sand  of  the  river's  edge 
and  aching  all  over,  it  still  seemed  the  gigantic  symbol  of 
our  national  spirit — a  perfect  monument  to  our  national 
ideals,  and  I  got  an  endure-forever  feeling  out  of  it  that 
neither  I  or  the  dictionary  have  words  to  express,  but 
that  must  be  in  the  heart  of  every  native  son  that  sees 
the  place,  and  that  like  understanding  can  be  mutually 
felt  without  having  to  be  put  down  in  black  and  white. 

Well,  anyways,  going  up  the  Bright  Angel  a  person  is 
not  so  much  scared  any  more,  and  can  look  at  the  views. 
Also  you  are  slanting  forward  instead  of  slanting  back- 
ward in  your  saddle.  We  was  all  more  peaceable  going 
up,  and  sort  of  drawn  close  by  our  mutual  dangerous 
experience,  and  real  friendly,  although  previously  perfect 
strangers,  and  this  went  even  for  the  camera  fiend.  But 
tired?  I'll  tell  the  world!  Near  the  top  Jim,  who  was 
riding  behind  me,  leaned  over  real  kind  and  tender. 


West  Broadway  233 

"How  does  the  top  look  to  you,  old  dear?"  he  says. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "I  always  expected  to  go  to  heaven, 
but  I  never  thought  I'd  do  it  on  a  mule." 

Pa  and  Ma  Peterkin  had  come  a  timid  ways  down  the 
trail  to  meet  us,  but  when  we  actually  got  on  the  rim 
again  I  didn't  stop  to  brag  or  for  any  conversation  either. 
I  had  several  personal  things  to  attend  to,  not  having 
ridden  before  in  some  months,  and  up  in  our  room  at 
the  hotel  Jim  and  I  had  a  swell  time  comparing  our 
wounds. 

I  personally  myself  felt  like  I  had  been  hung  over  a 
picket  fence  and  walloped  with  a  tent  pole.  You  see, 
during  the  ride  you  hold  onto  your  pummel  and  after  the 
ride  the  impulse  is  to  hold  onto  your  seating  capacity. 
But  in  spite  of  mere  passing  bodily  ailments,  my  soul  felt 
well  exercised  and  strong,  and  I  thought  with  a  big  sensa- 
tion of  pride  and  superiority  of  the  poor  boobs  that  would 
fall  for  that  ride  to-morrow. 

"I  don't  care  if  I  am  a  little  sore — it  was  great!"  says 
Jim  from  the  depths  of  a  warm  bath.  "I  wouldn't  of 
missed  the  Bright  Angel  Trail  for  anything,  would  you?" 

"I  would  not!"  I  says  truthfully.  "Because,  believe 
me,  if  I  had  missed  it  ever  so  slightly,  kid,  I  wouldn't  be 
here  now!" 


XVI 


A  COUPLE  of  years  ago  Jim  and  I  was  resting,  and 
one  night  when  we  didn't  have  anything  else  to  do 
we  went  to  see  a  opera  called  Le  Propheteer.  It  was  sung 
in  some  foreign  language,  but  we  could  tell  what  it  was 
about,  all  right,  because  a  fat  man  with  nothing  on  but  a 
shirt  come  out  and  put  up  a  awful  holler,  and  judging  by 
the  hand  he  got  for  it  it  was  a  complaint  about  how  the 
Propheteer  had  taken  everything  but  the  shirt  away  from 
him,  and  the  audience  was  in  thorough  sympathy.  And  if 
that  was  not  a  true  understanding  of  the  piece,  why  then  it 
took  its  name  from  the  price  of  the  seats. 

Well,  anyways,  what  I  am  driving  at  is  that  this  opera 
had  one  set  in  it  that  looked  a  whole  lot  like  the  country 
we  commenced  to  get  into  shortly  after  we  left  the  Grand 
Canyon — big,  square,  canvas-covered-looking  mountains 
and  barren  rocky  plains.  In  other  words,  the  kind  of  place 
the  stage  manager  thinks  locusts  and  wild  honey  grows 
in.  And  I'll  say  I  had  an  awful  fluttery  feeling  in  my 
middle,  because  the  desert,  which  had  been  more  or  less 
hanging  over  us  the  whole  trip  like  an  investigation  over 
a  Tammany  administration  or  a  sword  over  a  Damocles, 
whatever  it  was,  had  now  come  to  be  a  reality  instead. 

A  night  in  a  tiny  little  town  on  the  beginnings  of  the 
real  rough  country,  but  with  private  tiled  baths  as  per 
usual,  and  a  dead  robber  lying  where  the  sheriff  had  shot 
him  down,  which  was  luckily  at  the  undertaker's  shop, 
where  he  had  been  caught  in  the  act  of  breaking  in.  did 
nothing  to  calm  my  fears;  the  more  so  as  we  had  a  blow- 
out and  got  into  town  at  midnight,  which  is  a  spooky  hour, 
234 


West  Broadway  235 

anyways.  But  Jim  says  don't  be  a  fool,  his  ghost  can't 
walk  yet,  because  this  is  where  you  turn  back  your  watch 
one  hour  and  it  is  only  eleven  in  this  burg. 

Well,  I  want  to  say  one  thing  about  this  town  we  was 
in  and  all  these  other  little  railroad  towns  out  in  the  far 
places,  and  that  is,  I  wish  Trotzky,  Lenine  and  our  parlor 
pinks  could  see  just  once  the  way  our  poor  downtrodden 
railroad  workers  live  in  them,  with  private  baths  in  a 
waterless  country  where  it  has  to  be  brought  for  hundreds 
of  miles,  and  food  at  ten  to  fifty  cents  a  portion  that  is 
too  good  to  set  before  a  king  and  almost  suitable  for  a 
chorus  girl 's  supper !  And  how  these  poor  toilers  own  their 
own  homes  along  the  line — a  house  and  three  or  four  acres 
and  often  a  share  in  a  ranch,  too,  with  real-estate  values 
going  up  every  month. 

Everybody  out  in  these  parts  is  at  one  and  the  same 
time  a  worker,  a  capitalist  and  a  bourgeoisie — literally 
everybody.  Why,  even  most  of  the  Mexis  that  work  on 
the  roads  is  landholders!  It  does  seem  strange  to  me 
that  when  the  newspaper  editors  and  the  highbrows  start 
talking  about  the  workers  of  America  no  mention  is  ever 
made  of  the  fact  that  so  much  of  the  country  lives  under 
circumstances  as  per  see  above.  I  just  don't  understand 
the  omission.  You  would  think  that  they  would  first  of 
all  mention  these  remarkable  truths;  but  no,  they  love  to 
wring  agony  out  of  some  exception  that  they  take  as  prov- 
ing a  standard  instead  of  proving  the  rule.  But  leave  me 
go  on  record  as  stating  the  true  fact  that  if  modern  plumb- 
ing is,  as  I  believe  it  to  be,  a  fair  gauge  of  industrial  health, 
this  country  is  from  coast  to  coast  in  a  remarkably  sanitary 
condition.  City  papers  please  copy. 

Well,  anyways — oh,  boy,  wasn't  it  warm  when  we  come 
over  the  naked  mountains  to  Peach  Springs,  and  Lord 
knows  why  they  call  it  that  when  there  is  neither  a  peach 
or  a  spring  in  sight  and  water  for  your  radiator  is  twenty- 


236  West  Broadway 

five  cents!  And  then  through  a  burning  land  where  the 
sun  is  busy  fusing  the  rocks  under  the  barren  earth  into 
gold  and  silver,  to  Kingman. 

Of  course  I  like  to  look  decent  and  all  that,  and  I  had 
washed  the  night  before,  and  only  wore  my  waist  two  days, 
but  when  I  got  the  first  breath  of  the  old  desert,  believe  me, 
I  just  resigned  all  pretending  to  keep  my  make-up  on,  and 
when  a  woman  which  is  accustomed  to  wearing  it  in  all 
weather  leaves  her  face  run  around  undressed,  without 
even  a  kimono  of  powder  on  it,  you  may  know  conditions  is 
unusual,  and  that  I  had  by  now  become  a  thorough  tourist. 
At  least  I  thought  I  had  until  I  saw  the  four  flivvers. 

We  was  coming  over  a  bed  of  volcano  cinders,  Tom 
driving  and  I  and  Jim  busily  and  openly  rubbing  our  sun- 
burned noses  with  cold  cream  to  keep  them  from  getting 
any  worse,  although  we  felt  that  worse  was  really  impos- 
sible, because  we  now  knew  how  a  lobster  feels  when  he  is 
boiled  alive.  And  we  was  also  feeling  that  now  we  was 
completely  demoralized  and  to  hell  with  appearances  we 
must  have  our  comfort  and  that  we  had  descended  to  the 
lowest  depths  of  personal  carelessness,  when,  as  I  say,  we 
saw  the  four  flivvers  ahead,  and  learned  that  no  matter 
how  low  a  Colby-Droit  outfit  could  sink,  the  inhabitants  of 
flivvers  could  go  them  one  better,  and  again  I  had  to  in  a 
way  envy  them  because  of  this. 

You  see,  the  further  out  in  the  West  you  get  the  longer 
the  stretches  are  between  places,  and  so  a  sort  of  mutual-aid 
society  springs  up  among  the  camping  tourists.  They  get 
to  traveling  together  in  groups  of  two  to  even  six  or  eight 
cars,  so  that  if  anything  happens  to  one  bus,  why  the  others 
all  get  out  and  help.  Which  is  a  fine  thing,  especially  fifty 
miles  from  the  nearest  garage. 

Well,  these  four  flivvers  ahead  of  us  was  such  a  mutual- 
benefit  volunteer  society,  and  just  as  we  come  over  the 
ridge  the  first  one  got  stuck  in  the  sand.  Bight  away  I 


West  Broadway  237 

learned  what  comfort  and  back  to  Nature  was,  because  in 
another  moment  there  was  a  nightgown  party  in  full 
swing  in  the  middle  of  the  public  road.  From  every  car 
boiled  out  two  or  three  women  in  nightgowns  carrying  axes 
or  hatchets  and  men  in  undershirts  and  pants  and  nothing 
else,  except  also  a  weapon.  I'll  tell  the  world  it  was  some 
sight,  and  at  first  we  thought  a  private  war  had  been 
declared,  but  the  brush  was  all  that  they  attacked,  and 
did  it  with  a  right  good  will,  with  the  thermometer  at — 
no  kidding — one  hundred  and  ten  above  zero. 

"Well,"  says  Jim  as  we  passed  them,  there  is  advantages 
in  being  unknown  to  fame!  Gee,  I'd  like  to  wear  pa- 
jamas ! ' ' 

"Ain't  it  strange  to  see  people  acting  natural?"  I  says. 
And  the  bunch  having  refused  any  help  from  us,  we  went 
on  our  way,  and  by  noon,  at  one  hundred  and  fifteen  above 
in  the  shade,  we  come  into  Kingman,  a  big  mining  town 
on  the  far  edge  of  Arizona,  and  I  want  to  make  a  few  re- 
marks about  it.  I  don't  know  did  anything  or  any  place 
give  me  a  stronger  sense  of  how  closely  linked  up  this 
vast  country  really  is,  for  all  it  is  spread  over  such  a  lot 
of  ground. 

We  come  into  it  out  of  valleys  where  the  heat  haze  floated 
like  a  veil  between  the  bleak  mountains-country  that  looked 
like  it  had  nothing  in  it.  But,  say,  it  has  gold  and  silver 
and  copper  and  even  diamonds  in  it !  Only  you  would 
never  guess  it  from  the  outside,  and  believe  me,  the  man 
who  ate  the  first  lobster  had  nothing  on  the  bravery  of  the 
first  prospectors  who  thought  there  might  be  something 
worth  having  in  those  mountains,  and  went  out  and  looked 
and  found  they  was  right.  And  you  also  got  to  hand  it 
to  the  fellows  who  are  out  there  right  now  working  those 
mines.  I  don't  care  how  many  modern  machines  and  so 
forth  they  have,  they  are  a  brave  and  strong-hearted  race. 
It  takes  a  he  man  to  do  a  job  out  there  yet. 


238  West  Broadway 

When  you  leave  Kingman  you  get  into  even  more  desert 
country.  But  Kingman  itself  is  in  hourly  touch  with  Wall 
Street,  New  York.  Why,  when  I  went  into  the  big  cool 
cavern  of  the  hotel  there  I  had  forgotten  there  was  a 
Wall  Street !  Never  having  done  any  gambling  in  it,  but 
always  buying  outright  and  preferably  Liberty  Bonds,  at 
that,  why,  111  say  I  was  never  so  interested  in  that  well- 
known  street  as  I  was  while  in  the  Kingman  hotel. 

There  in  the  lobby  was  a  big  blackboard  with  a  feller 
reading  a  ticker  and  chalking  up  prices,  and  a  bunch  of 
others  hanging  around  watching  just  like  a  New  York 
broker 's  office.  The  only  thing  different  was  that  in  King- 
man they  had  a  long  counter  with  generous  specimens  of 
the  actual  ore  out  of  the  actual  mines,  whereas  in  New 
York,  well,  you  know,  it's  like  choosing  a  candidate  because 
you  heard  he  was  a  blond.  Still  it  gave  me  a  thrill  and  a 
real  we-are-together  feeling  to  get  that  actual  touch  of  the 
big  town  way  out  here  on  the  desert.  And  it  sure  seemed 
strange,  too,  to  think  that  all  this  had  to  be  done  before  we 
could  have  money  for  the  banks.  A  person  walking  into 
a  big  Fifth  Avenue  bank  and  asking  the  bird  in  the  gilded 
cage  for  some  kale,  and  getting  it  in  fresh  green  bank  notes 
don't  often  think  of  the  boys  that  dig  out  the  actual  gold. 
No,  nor  do  the  ones  who  buy  a  vanity  or  a  cigarette  case, 
either.  All  they  think  of  is  to  kick  about  the  price.  I, 
however,  for  one,  will  never  forget  that  brave  little  city  of 
people  who  were  wresting  riches  out  of  the  jealous  earth. 
Nor  will  I  ever  forget  the  perfect  apple  pie  I  had  at  lunch- 
eon there,  either,  which  was  good  in  itself,  but  when  I  had 
them  a-la-mode  it,  oh,  boy ! 

Well,  I  got  one  thing  against  that  town,  however,  and 
that  was  the  short  cut  which  a  garage  guardian  told  us  to 
take  by  way  of  Oatman,  where  not  oatmeal  but  gold  ore 
comes  from,  and  Goldroad,  where  believe  me  the  roads 
may  be  made  of  gold,  but  if  so  it  is  still  in  the  rough — 


West  Broadway  239 

in  other  words  nine-tenths  is  of  worthless  rock  of  no  value 
except  to  the  tire  and  spring  manufacturers.  Heaven  is 
also  advertised  as  being  paved  with  gold,  but  if  it  is  paved 
with  gold  in  the  same  way  as  Goldroad,  Arizona,  believe  me, 
I  would  rather  go  to  the  other  place  and  ride  over  good 
intentions.  However,  in  a  way  it  was  interesting.  The 
towns  looked  exactly  like  they  had  been  put  up  for  a  set 
and  then  just  left  to  the  wind  and  weather  to  pose  in  after 
the  picture  was  made.  I  had  to  keep  my  mind  tight  onto 
the  fact  that  these  strange,  bleak  mountains  were  full  of 
kale  and  berries  to  keep  from  being  depressed  by  the  fact 
that  there  was  no  other  growth  on  them,  because  this  part 
of  the  country  is  more  interesting  than  beautiful  while  you 
are  in  among  it. 

But  when  we  ferried  the  Colorado  River  and  come  in 
towards  Needles,  past  Indian  hogans,  and  I  suppose  they 
make  the  Indians  live  in  them  as  a  just  punishment  for 
having  started  the  bead-necklace  epidemic — well,  anyways, 
after  we  crossed  the  Colorado  River  and  looked  back  at 
those  black  mountains,  behold  in  the  sunset  the  gold  was 
shining  clear  through  them!  They  were  no  longer  dark 
and  threatening,  but  bright,  burnished  yellow,  alluring, 
dazzling  and  showing  for  a  few  moments  the  full  measure 
of  their  promise.  Even  the  bowl  of  Oraibi  Valley  was  not 
so  golden  as  those  towering  peaks  in  the  sunset,  and  I 
thought  by  heaven  ain't  that  strange,  here  the  very  min- 
ute we  set  wheel  base  on  California  soil,  or  rather  sand, 
the  world  turns  golden,  just  like  the  ordinarily  unreliable 
real-estaters  say.  And  beautiful  oasis  that  Needles  turned 
out  to  be,  with  palm  trees  and  green  grass  and  buganvilla 
and  everything.  I  could  not  look  at  it  while  the  light  was 
on  those  mountains.  I  felt  truly  what  the  old  poet  in  the 
Bible  meant  when  he  talked  about  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto 
the  hills  from  whence  cometh  my  strength.  Only  in  this 
it  was  not  only  a  spiritual  beauty  that  a  person  could 


240  West  Broadway 

get  out  of  the  hills,  but  something  mighty  substantial  as 
well,  which  is  true  of  a  lot  of  American  scenery. 

Well,  at  the  commencement  of  this  trip  I  had  got  a  pretty 
fair  picture  in  my  mind  of  what  the  desert — the  well- 
known  Moe  Harvey — was  going  to  be  like.  I  may  not  of 
started  out  in  life  with  a  whole  lot  of  education,  but  I  got  a 
little  rubbed  off  onto  me  in  Public  School  Number  Six,  and 
some  of  it  come  off  the  geography  book.  So  I  knew  that  the 
prohibitionist  symbol  was  a  product  of  the  desert,  the  same 
as  the  Republican  was  the  product  of  Africa  and  the  Demo- 
cratic the  product  of  their  own  state  of  mind.  Not  that  I 
seriously  expected  to  see  many  camels  on  the  Moe  Harvey, 
because  I  supposed  they  was  probably  mostly  killed  off 
by  now  the  same  as  the  buffalo.  But  I  did  think  I  might 
see  one  or  two  maybe,  on  the  distant  sand  dunes. 

Also  I  expected  sand.  I  don't  mean  bushes — sage  and 
mesquite  and  Russian  thistle  and  cactus,  but  regular  sand 
like  the  beach,  only  more  so,  and  how  the  underslung,  four- 
thousand-lb.  Colby  was  going  through  it  I  didn't  know. 
When  the  Peterkins  come  into  town  shortly  after  dark  I 
envied  them  their  bus,  even  though  they  had  to  put  it  in 
the  hospital  directly  and  then  commence  a  several  days' 
wait  hanging  around  to  find  out  the  result  of  the  operation. 
When  they  would  again  be  ready  to  go  on  they  would 
have  a  cinch,  while  with  us — well,  all  I  could  hope  was 
that  some  friendly  prospector  would  come  prospecting 
along  and  brighten  our  prospects  with  a  little  water  be- 
fore we  died  of  thirst  up  to  our  hubs  in  the  burning  knife 
cleaner. 

When  I  first  left  home  I  also  expected  maybe  we  would 
see  a  few  American  Arabs  and  maybe  see  a  real  original 
shimmy  in  the  cool  shade  of  some  grove  of  palm-leaf  fans 
on  a  oasis.  I  expected  I  would  see  skeletons  both  human 
and  animal  scattered  along  the  toilsome  way,  little  knowing 
at  the  time  that  the  only  skeletons  we  would  spot  was 


West  Broadway  241 

skeletons  of  canned  peaches  and  the  empty,  dying  bodies 
of  pop  bottles.  As  for  the  Arabs  and  shimmies — well,  we 
had  to  hit  the  coast  for  that,  and  by  "coast"  I  mean  Bar- 
bary,  San  Francisco,  and  the  old  town  isn  't  as  dead  as  they 
let  on.  I  afterward  spent  long  minutes  watching  just  that 
stuff.  California  minutes  are  longer  than  Eastern  minutes, 
you  know — bigger  minutes — watch  'em  grow! 

Well,  anyways,  these  are  a  few  of  the  terrors  and 
pleasures  which  I  had  fully  expected  to  find  on  Moe  's  reser- 
vation, and  when  we  started  out  from  Needles  next  day 
after  saying  to  the  Peterkins  good-by  we  will  see  you  in 
Los  Angeles,  I  hope  your  carburetor  is  better  soon,  why  of 
course  we  expected  to  have  in  plain  Esperanto  a  hellofa 
time,  and  for  a  few  miles  out  our  fears  come  true.  And 
after  that  there  was  a  paved  road. 

Just  give  a  look  at  that  sentence,  will  you,  and  leave  it 
digest !  And  when  it  has  sunk  in  thoroughly  I  will  admit 
that  the  road  had  also  sunk  in  in  spots,  or  rather  not  so 
much  sunk  in  as  been  sanded  over  by  sand  storms.  Don't 
get  away  with  the  idea  that  the  going  was  perfect,  because 
it  was  not.  Every  now  and  then,  but  more  often  now, 
the  sand  would  be  well  blown  over  by  the  wind,  and  get- 
ting the  car  through  this  was  like  digging  little  Arthur  out 
from  under  the  nice  sand  castle  that  has  fallen  on  him,  and 
doing  it  with  a  hairpin.  But  the  big  thing  to  remember 
is  that  across  that  vast  desert,  which  is  a  real  genuine 
desert  all  right,  even  if  there  are  no  camels  on  it  and  it 
has  stuff  growing  over  most  of  it,  the  big  thing  is  that 
there  should  be  a  road  of  any  kind,  much  less  a  paved  one ! 
We  were  in  California  now,  and  I  guess  the  Southern  Cali- 
fornia Automobile  Club  meant  we  should  know  it.  And 
we  sure  did.  They  tried  to  work  a  miracle,  and  they  have 
pretty  near  done  it. 

But  outside  of  this  streak  of  civilization  the  desert  was 
as  deserted  as  you  please.  Even  the  prairie  dogs 


242  West  Broadway 

laid  down  on  the  job.  Time  hangs  waiting  over  this 
desert  like  a  veil  that  may  some  day  be  lifted.  I  personally 
myself  hope  not.  That  is,  not  all  of  it.  I  got  to  hand  it 
to  the  dry  farmers  who  are  blossoming  it  like  the  rose.  But 
oh,  I  want  a  lot  of  it  left  barren  and  untouched  except  for 
a  good  road,  just  the  way  it  is !  I  want  those  mountains  on 
either  hand  to  go  on  in  an  eternal  demonstration  of  how 
they  were  since  the  flood  receded,  so  that  people,  including 
myself,  can  go  there  and  drink  in  the  air  of  big  untamed 
spaces  and  grow  strong-hearted  doing  it.  I  want  to  keep 
untouched  the  long  valleys  filled  with  faint  colors  and 
the  living  ghosts  of  dead  ages,  where  nothing  built  by  man 
stands  to  remind  a  person  of  how  very  little  man  knows, 
and  where  the  soul  can  go  out  through  the  eyes  and  grow 
big  wandering  down  this  wide  corner  of  the  virgin  world. 
And  a  lot  of  queer  things  like  that  that  may  be  slush  but 
are  true  and  important. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  people  who  cross  the  desert.  The 
ones  who  immediately  fall  for  it  and  never  recover,  and 
the  ones  who  never  fall  for  it  and  want  to  get  off  of  it  im- 
mediately. And  these  two  classes  hold  each  other  in  equal 
contempt. 

As  was  to  be  expected  in  man  and  wife,  we  took  sides, 
I  and  Jim,  just  naturally  falling  under  these  two  heads, 
he  on  the  con  and  I  on  the  pro  side.  To  say  he  hated  that 
desert  is  to  put  it  into  the  only  language  fit  for  a  lady  to 
use,  and  I'll  tell  the  world  he  did  not  let  it  go  at  any 
such  mild  expression. 

"Jim  Smith,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  feel  that  way 
about  it ! "  I  says  as  we  skimmed  along  the  edge  of  a  brown 
mesa  with  a  violet  valley  stretching  out  below.  "Why 
you  got  no  sensitiveness  at  all !  Now  when  I  get  home  I  am 
going  to  be  lonesome  for  this  desert. ' ' 

"Sensitive?"  says  Jim,  pointing  at  a  huge  old  volcano 
crater  as  black  as  ink  with  also  inklike  bowlders  laying  all 


West  Broadway  243 

around  it  for  miles.  "Sensitive?  Lonesome  for  that? 
Say,  listen,  kid,  when  I  get  lonesome  for  the  Moe  Harvey 
desert  at  home  I'm  gonner  put  on  my  smoked  glasses,  go 
down  in  the  cellar  and  get  the  furnace  man  to  shake  me 
around  on  the  cinder  shaker  while  I  throw  lumps  of  coal 
around  and  holler  'Ah,  Moe  Harvey!'  ' 

Which  is  all  the  vision  some  people  have  got ! 

Tom  didn't  say  much,  but  I  got  a  feeling  he  sort  of 
sided  with  Jim.  I  suppose  it  kind  of  reminded  Tom  of  the 
lower  East  Side,  it  was  so  different.  But  I  felt  never  mind 
whether  he  likes  it  or  not,  he  is  seeing  it,  and  the  mere 
size  of  it  will  register  in  his  mind  if  nothing  else  does, 
along  with  the  other  eyefuls  of  IT.  S.  A.  units  that  he  has 
now  been  for  weeks  going  across,  and  it  will  impress  him, 
whether  he  knows  it  or  not.  And  just  while  I  was  thinking 
this  in  the  late  afternoon,  and  we  still  on  the  desert  east 
of  Barstow,  my  mind  all  at  ease  and  yet  feeling  a  little 
sad,  because  with  any  kind  of  luck  to-morrow  would  be  our 
last  day,  and  then  we  would  be  in  California  and  I  got 
by  now  a  sort  of  feeling  like  I  could  go  on  driving  in  the 
Colby  forever  with  no  amen.  The  sort  of  feeling  you  get 
when  you  have  been  driving  a  car  for  hours  and  hours. 
You  get  a  kind  of  second  wind.  Your  hands  are  glued 
to  the  wheel,  your  feet  are  frozen  to  the  pedals  with  fa- 
tigue ;  you  feel  like  you  had  grown  to  the  seat  yet  you  get 
a  strange  sort  of  second  strength  that  makes  you  want  to 
keep  on  and  on  and  then  some. 

Well,  I  was  having  this  same  sensation  about  our  jour- 
ney, only  more  in  my  brain  than  in  my  body,  when  all  at 
once  I  looked  back  and  saw  a  red  car  almost  a  mile  away, 
but  traveling  fast  and  gaining  on  us  every  minute.  Now 
I  had  just  naturally  got  to  have  a  hateful,  suspicious  feel- 
ing towards  every  red  car  that  come  into  sight,  but  also 
I  had  come  to  realize  that  as  a  rule  it  was  a  false  alarm, 
and  so  when  this  far-distant  one  crawled  over  the  edge  of 


244  West  Broadway 

the  pass  and  started  down  the  trail  toward  us  I  says  to 
myself,  now  don't  be  a  fool.  It  is  probably  only  two  old 
maids  from  Oshkosh  or  a  bride  and  groom  from  Florida 
touring  out  here  where  it  is  cooler.  Tom  was  driving  and 
I  sitting  next  to  him,  with  Jim  and  Welcome  in  back. 

Ahead  of  us,  lay,  if  not  camels,  at  least  a  long  rolling 
series  of  camel  's-hump  hills  with  deep  washes  and  sandy 
going  in  between.  Not  a  building  of  any  kind  or  even 
another  tourist  had  been  in  sight  for  over  an  hour  when 
I  spotted  that  red  bus.  But  instead  of  mentioning  it  I 
just  turned  my  head  back. 

"Tom,"  I  says,  "if  you  don't  step  on  her  a  little  I  ex- 
pect we  are  going  to  sleep  in  the  open." 

"And  if  I  step  on  her  too  much  on  this  stretch  we  are 
going  to  be  mere  canyon  fodder, ' '  says  Tom. 

"It's  a  good  joke — I  was  always  fond  of  it,"  I  says. 
"But  I'd  like  to  get  to  Barstow  to-night,  just  the  same." 

I  don't  know  what  I  hoped  for  out  of  Barstow,  but  I 
had  a  feeling  we  might  be  safer  there.  I  had  a  uneasy 
hunch  that  the  bus  might  prove  our  finish  this  time.  And 
don't  tell  me  woman's  intuition  is  always  pure  nervous 
imagination,  because  in  another  minute  Jim,  who  had  been 
dozing  but  was  woke  up  by  our  talk,  stirred  around  to 
change  his  position  among  the  uneasy  bags  and  curse  be- 
cause the  golf  clubs  had  hit  him  a  wallop,  and  in  doing  so 
took  a  slant  through  the  place  where  the  back  window  in 
the  top  had  been  before  the  isinglass  fell  out. 

' '  Beat  it ! "  he  yells.    ' '  There  are  those  cops ! ' ' 

"Are  you  sure?"  I  says. 

"Oy,  gevalt!"  says  Tom,  very  low-voiced,  but  from  his 
heart. 

"Sure  I'm  sure!"  says  Jim,  watching  still.  "And  be- 
lieve me,  they  are  getting  nearer  every  second!  Step  on 
her,  Tom,  you  poor  fish,  step  on  her!" 

"What's  the  use?"  says  Tom,  but  stepping  on  her  just 


West  Broadway  245 

the  same,  and  at  that  minute  the  red  car  commenced  honk- 
ing for  us  to  stop. 

But  we  didn't — not  then.  Tom  hunched  down  at  the 
wheel  and  opened  her  up  wide,  me  driving  with  him  in 
spirit,  every  nerve  working  overtime  and  not  daring  to 
look  back.  But  a  few  hundred  feet  was  all  that  this  lasted. 
When  the  bulls  found  that  honking  was  no  good  they  got 
earnest,  and  suddenly  the  vast  silence  was  broken  by  a 
revolver  shot. 

"  It 's  no  good  bucking  that ! ' '  says  Tom  grimly,  sluing 
in  the  sand  to  an  abrupt  stop.  "The  jig  is  up,  I  guess!'' 

And  at  that  minute  Jim  got  to  his  feet  with  a  yell. 

"Look,  look!"  he  hollered. 

With  my  knees  sort  of  gone  to  jelly,  I  climbed  out  of 
the  front  seat  to  see,  expecting  murder  at  the  very  least. 
But  what  I  seen  was  more  of  a  shock  yet. 

The  red  car  had  stopped  twenty  feet  behind  us,  and  it 
was  our  red  car  all  right,  and  it  had  the  same  two  fellers  in 
it  all  right,  the  big  one  with  the  red  face  and  the  little 
one  with  the  spinach.  This  small  bird  was  the  driver,  and 
the  other  one  was  standing  up  in  the  car  and  he  was 
shooting.  Shooting  right  at  me!  Shooting  a  perfectly 
good  motion-picture  camera! 

"Hold  that  on  the  step !"  he  yelled  as  I  started  to  move. 
"Keep  that  surprise!  Hold  it!  Hold  it — twenty-four, 
twenty-five,  twenty-six — that'll  do,  thanks!  Much  obliged!" 

And  then  he  left  off  grinding  and  got  out  of  the  car, 
coming  forward  and  mopping  his  face  with  a  big  silk  hand- 
kerchief, while  I  just  stood  numb  with  surprise. 

"Well,  Miss  La  Tour,  you  folks  sure  have  given  us  some 
chase!"  said  he.  "But  believe  me,  we  got  footage  of  you 
that  you  are  going  to  like !  That  narrow  escape  on  the  Ra- 
ton is  a  bear !  Released  yesterday,  it  was,  and  Al  wired  us 
that  it  went  over  big!" 

"Who — and  what  are  you?"  I  says  weakly. 


246  West  Broadway 

"Yes,  who?*'  says  Jim. 

"Henry  Lock!"  says  the  big  bird.  "Gonner  shoot  your 
Shakspere  script  for  you,  Miss  La  Tour.  And  this  is 
Mr.  Williams,  my  driver.  Pleased  to  make  your  acquain- 
tance!" 

"Then  you're  not  a  bull?"  says  Jim,  sort  of  feebly. 

"Not  by  any  means!"  says  Mr.  Lock,  looking  at  me 
queerly. 

"And  you  never  were  a  cop?"  I  says,  hardly  able  to 
believe  my  own  ears. 

"Never!"  says  he. 

"Then  meet  my  friend  Mr. — my  chauffeur,"  I  says,  re- 
lievedly  introducing  Tom. 

' '  Pleased  to  meetcher, ' '  says  Lock.  ' '  Say,  Miss  La  Tour, 
now  we  have  caught  up,  we  might  as  well  work  together  on 
the  finish  of  this  stuff,  eh?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  says.  "Ill  say  there  is  an  ex- 
planation coming  to  me ! ' ' 

"Well,  no  harm  to  tell  it  now,  I  guess,"  says  Mr.  Lock. 
"You  see,  Mr.  Goldringer  thought  that  as  long  as  he  was 
paying  your  expenses  out  on  this  trip  he  might  as  well 
get  something  out  of  it.  It  was  using  up  a  month  of 
your  time  and  a  lot  of  his  money,  but  he  knew  you  had 
objected  strongly  to  any  publicity  on  the  trip,  so  he  got 
the  idea  of  getting  some  pictures  of  you  driving  to  the 
coast  to  make  Borneo  and  Juliet,  or  the  Secret  Marriage, 
as  I  believe  the  screen  version  is  to  be  called." 

' '  So  you — he — they — oh,  it 's  a  outrage ! "  I  gasped.  ' '  So 
you  been  sneaking  around  making  pictorial  news  out  of 
me  and  releasing  the  stuff  without  my  consent!" 

"  'Sneaking  around'  is  hardly  the  word,"  says  Lock. 
"You  led  us  the  hottest  chase  I  ever  see!  And,  yes,  the 
stuff  has  been  released  in  the  news  pictures  and  you  won't 
be  sorry.  Why,  the  first  one  they  showed  got  the  biggest 
hand  since  the  shots  of  Karl  Westman  being  deported!" 


West  Broadway  247 

No  kidding,  wasn't  that  a  bomb?  I'll  allow  it  was  I 
When  it,  as  you  might  say,  exploded  in  our  midst  the  shock 
left  us  helpless,  and  for  a  moment  without  a  word  to  our 
name.  Then  Tom  come  forward  with  another  high-pow- 
ered explosive. 

"  So  it 's  happened !    Thank  God ! ' ' 

"You  knew  it  would?"  says  I  excitedly.  "You  ex- 
pected it?" 

"I  was  the  one  material  witness  that  could  have  saved 
him  from  being  deported,"  says  Tom.  "And  I  wanted 
him  to  go.  Without  me,  I  knew  they  would  get  just 
enough  on  him  in  connection  with  that  explosion  to  send 
him  back  to  Russia.  And  I  wouldn't  help  to  keep  him  in 
— in  my  country !  We  don't  want  men  with  ideas  like  his 
over  here ! ' ' 

Well,  at  that  something  leaped  up  inside  me — my  heart, 
I  guess,  and  I  looked  at  Tom  with  it  aU  in  my  eyes. 

"You  did  it!"  he  says,  understanding  without  a  word. 

' '  The  country  did  it ! "  says  I.    And  then  Lock  butted  in. 

"Who  is  this  guy?"  he  says,  pointing  at  Tom. 

"I'll  tell  you  that,"  I  says,  remembering  something, 
"if  you  will  tell  me  why  you  stopped  us  by  firing  a  gun 
at  us?" 

"Gun?"  says  Lock.  "Gun?  That  wasn't  a  gunshot 
^-that  was  a  blow-out!" 


xvn 

A  CCORDING  to  the  wets,  it  is  easier  for  a  rich  man  to 
JL\  pass  through  the  eye  of  a  needle  than  for  a  camel  to 
enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  And  if  this  is  the  truth,  then 
I  am  glad  not  to  be  a  camel,  because  I  would  never  of  got 
into  California.  Anyway,  that's  what  I  felt  like  at  the  top 
of  the  Cajon  Pass,  beyond  Barstow  next  day,  when  I 
caught  my  first  look  at  the  lived-in  part  of  the  Golden 
State  and  found  the  picture  post  cards  had  not  lied  to  me. 

You  come  to  the  top  of  this  pass  over  a  desert  full  of 
strange  cactuses  that  twist  and  yearn  towards  heaven, 
but  will  never  reach  it.  These  are  called  Judas  trees,  and 
Indians  think  they  are  the  tortured  souls  of  people  who 
have  died.  But  I  know  different.  They  are  just  trees 
that  are  tormented  because  they  can 't  get  across  the  moun- 
tain and  into  the  San  Bernardino  Valley. 

I  am  not  going  to  hand  you  any  description  of  Califor- 
nia. They  have  got  plenty  of  people  out  there  who  will 
do  that  with  very  little  urging,  and  you  already  know  what 
they  will  say,  so  all  I  will  do  is  to  add  that  no  matter  how 
good  it  sounds,  it's  even  better  in  reality. 

I  personally  myself  will  say  merely  that  the  meat  of  the 
trip  across  the  country  is  not,  surprisingly,  the  main 
course,  and  California  is  the  dessert.  Coming  into  it  is 
just  as  if  they  suddenly  brought  on  baked  Alaska  when 
you  were  beginning  to  be  afraid  there  wasn't  going  to  be 
anything  more  served. 

And  outside  of  that  I  have  nothing  to  add  except  that 
it's  got  the  loveliest  scenery,  the  best  roads,  the  grandest 
studios,  orchards,  architecture  and  anything  else  you  want 


West  Broadway  249 

to  name,  and  besides  that  the  folks  out  there  have  got 
the  most  contagious  enthusiasm  over  living  of  any  people 
in  the  world. 

All  this  and  more  I  appreciated  before  I  reached  River- 
side, with  its  flower-laden  streets. 

Also  I  appreciated  that  the  light  and  the  climate  was 
going  to  be  ideal  to  make  a  early  Italian  picture  of  the 
Shaksperean  era  in.  And  that  it  was  a  grand  thing  that 
Tom  should  take  out  his  second  papers  there  and  that  Alma, 
when  she  married  him,  would  at  once  become  one  of  those 
typical  big  beautiful  California  girls  that  generally  are 
born  in  Maine. 

I  appreciated  how  my  pink  acquaintances  back  in  pro- 
vincial New  York  City,  Miss  Rosa  Gratz  and  Mr.  Crabtree, 
her  husband,  and  Lulu  Wildhack  was  all  not  a  real  menace, 
as  I  had  set  out  supposing  them  to  be,  but  only  soiled  pup- 
pets that  would  break  to  pieces  in  this  clean  air,  and 
look  pretty  cheap  and  faded  if  they  were  brought  out  into 
the  sunlight. 

I  also  appreciated  what  a  big  live  wire  of  a  town  Los 
Angeles  is,  and  how  pretty  Hollywood  is,  with  its  houses 
all  built  with  a  teaspoon  and  a  bottle  of  vanilla  extract. 
But  of  all  the  things  in  California,  I  appreciated  most  the 
fact  that  my  baby  was  there  waiting  for  me  in  a  vanilla 
house  with  strawberry  trimming  and  that  when  we  drove 
up  to  it  ma  was  standing  on  the  top  step  holding  him  out 
to  me  all  fat  and  rosy  and  crowing.  And  he  knew  me! 
He  remembered  me!  Ill  tell  the  world  I  forgot  every- 
thing but  him  when  I  took  him  to  my  heart ! 
"Well,  did  you  see  America,  dearie?"  says  ma. 

* '  Oh,  ma,  I  thought  I  did ! "  I  says  over  the  kid 's  shoulder 
as  I  held  him  to  me  tight.  "I  thought  I  did;  but  now — 
oh,  ma,  here  is  America  right  in  my  arms!  And  believe 
me,  that's  just  exactly  where  it  is,  after  all — in  every 
American  mother 's  arms !  I  don 't  intend  ever  to  leave  him 


250  West  Broadway 

again,  ma.  I'll  let  Jim  do  the  work  from  now  on,  and 
put  in  my  time  raising  this  kid  to  be  a  fit  citizen  worthy  of 
the  country  I've  just  come  across.  I'll  never  leave  him 
any  more!" 

"Well,  there's  a  telephone  from  the  studio,"  says  ma, 
"saying  please  call  up  as  soon  as  you  get  in  and  say 
when  will  you  go  to  work!" 

"Go  telephone  them "  I  began,  firmly  at  first,  but 

weakening  even  as  I  spoke,  because  work  did  listen  good 
to  me.  "Go  tell  them  that  I'll  come  to-morrow  morning. 
A  contract  is  a  contract.  Americans  need  to  remember  that 
just  now  more  than  ever.  I  guess  maybe,  after  all,  I've 
got  two  contracts — my  baby  and  my  job.  And  with  God's 
help  I'll  fill  them  both!" 

"Oh,  well,  I'll  help  a  little,  dearie,"  says  ma. 


THE  END 


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